


One, Two, Three

by Petrichor1110



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Army, Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichor1110/pseuds/Petrichor1110
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home from Afghanistan after a unexpected six month tour. Future Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am writing this in three parts (not three chapters), but hopefully I can manage to label everything clearly so you know which part is which. I'm thinking part one and three will be from John's POV and part two will be from Sherlock's...that being said, I do have a tendency to change my mind. So I hope this turns out well and enjoy the story. :)

-o0o-

One, two, three. One day until he was home. One day until he burst through the door and held the man he had only been able to talk to for the past three months. One day until he could (hopefully) feel his lips on his. One day until he could hear his deep baritone, the one that haunted his dreams, in person, echoing through the nearly empty flat.

-o0o-

This had to be the longest day of John Watson's life. It felt as if time had stopped, like every second passed slower and slower, the hands on his watch never moving. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair, even though he had only showered a few hours ago, sand still poured out of his hair. How was he supposed to do this looking like some sand creature? How was he supposed to do any of it?

He should have done it months, no, years ago, when he first realized he had feelings for his ridiculous flatmate. But he didn't, he kept putting it off and then he didn't want to lose him, and then he got deployed. Being back in the war, being back to a point where he wasn't sure if he would live another day, that was his breaking point. That was what made him realize how important it was to tell Sherlock everything. How crucial it was to tell him how much he cared for him...and yet here he was still scared shitless.

What if Sherlock didn't feel the same, or what if he did, was John really ready for a relationship with a man? He had literally no experience in that area, his only frame of reference was with women, it would be like starting from scratch and in a whole different ball game. He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

John knew he had probably felt this way since the first day at Bart's but Sherlock was clear right from the off, he wasn't looking for a relationship. That's what scared him. What if Sherlock shot him down, or worse left him. Was a chance of something more really worth possibly losing his best friend and flatmate? John looked around bleak desert airport. White walls, white tiled floors, and these god awful blue airport seats.

The gate was filled with soliders, all ready to go home, either finishing their tour or just going home on leave. When he had gone home for his 14 day leave, three months ago, it was as if he never left. Sherlock was back to his usual self, except maybe a tad thinner, if that was even possible. He was on a few cases for a good ten days of his leave, but the last four days...there was something different. He lingered. Every touch, every glance, he lingered. It was strange, not unwelcome but strange none the less.

Whenever John felt Sherlock's all knowing eyes on him, it gave him then his leave was over, and that was all they got, a few peaceful days. Even then John could swear he could feel his eyes on him again as he left the flat that last time. Ever since, John wondered if his absence had somehow alerted Sherlock to the existence of the feelings he now held, but on the on other hand John also realized it could be something as simple as a new experiment he wanted to try on John, and not the reciprocation John desired.

John sighed thinking about his great detective...no, not his, the great detective. The way his dark curls flopped onto his face. The grouchy expression he always made whenever John tried to make him eat a bite of anything. His deep but genuine laughter when John was able to say something surprisingly funny...

"John? John? You alright mate?" The solider in front of him asked. The young man, put his hand on his shoulder, as if he was trying to shake him back to the real world.

"Ya, just...nervous." He said being perfectly honest. John looked him over. His army cut hair just starting to grow out, the smile on his face, and the overall excitement of going home, all reminding him of a younger version of himself. Fresh out of school, first tour, just a kid looking for adventure. John had taken him under his wing right from the off, shown Jack the ropes, so to speak. He was a good kid, smart, fit, and quick on his feet, everything the army needed and wanted in a recruit.

"I hear ya. I can't wait to get back and have my mum's cooking again. She said she's going to have dinner all ready when I get back." He said, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. "That was one thing you never told me! You never told me how bad the food was!" He laughed.

"Oh shut up, the food's not bad!" John laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Okay, but it not even close to my mum's." Jack smiled.

John mindlessly fumbled with his dog tags. "Ya, well those are kind of unfair expectations." He said, now looking at the young man who sat beside him. "Do you think you will go back for a second tour?" John asked, knowing that this one hadn't been easy on anyone in the troop, especially the new guys. Seeing battle for the first time, seeing death on a large scale, fearing being killed everyday, it was hard on everyone. But being new and having soliders come to them, missing limbs, crying out for help, and only being able to ease their way, for some it was too much. Now obviously that wasn't an everyday occurrence, but even having that happen once was too many times.

"I don't know, I want to, but..." He trailed off as he ran his hand though his straight, brown hair. "It's just, I know when I am there, I am making a difference. Really saving lives, you know. I could just stop and go to school become a true doctor or nurse, but I don't know if that's enough."

"Just remember it is your choice." John said, providing some much needed wisdom. But really it wasn't his place to tell him either way.

Soon an announcer interrupted their conversation (which had quickly taken a more serious tone), calling their flight over the intercom.

Both John and Jack stood up, grabbing their canvas duffels off the floor, John pitching his over his good shoulder and Jack carrying his in his hand. John patted his back, smiling at his friend, who he felt like he had known forever. "Come on, let's go home." John said as they boarded the large army plane.

-o0o-

The flight was long and they still had an eight hour stop over in Germany before they would board a civilian plane back to London. Even though he was exhausted, John was itching to leave the entire time, not because he disliked Germany for any reason, but just because he wanted to get back to Baker Street as quickly as possible.

Between him and Jack, they could have had enough nervous energy to fly the plane themselves. With Jack talking a mile a minute and John almost running down the hall ways just to calm down. John just...he needed to take a breath and figure out what he was going to do. He went into the airport bathroom, it was much nicer than the one they had occupied in the desert. He splashed the cold water on his somehow still dust covered face, watching as the dirt wash down the sink.

His hand was shaking as it ran over the skin. No... his hand didn't shake anymore, not since he met Sherlock...so why was it shaking now? He willed it to stop, but it didn't, It only shook harder. Shaking, even as John held it to his chest. Then it hit him, he missed him. His hand was shaking because he missed him, he missed the danger of his consulting detective, he missed his soft pale skin, he missed his icy eyes, God, he even missed the experiments that made the flat smell like some kind of dead animal. That was definitely never something he thought he would ever say, and yet six months away from Baker Street had done him in.

He leaned against the sink and into the mirror, facing himself, forcing himself to be honest. He rubbed his hand over his brow, wiping away the last of the dust. He sighed, definitely starting to phsyc himself out of telling Sherlock everything. Did he actually see what was happening or did he just see what he wanted to see? He couldn't even tell any more. Was he really that far gone that he couldn't even differentiate between his wants and reality? John was a man who needed to be in control, and right now he wasn't. He had no control over Sherlock, he had no control over what he was feeling, and he had absolutely no control over his heart skipping a beat and his breath hitching every time he even thought about the dark haired detective.

On top of everything else, John wasn't good with relationships. His longest relationship (ever), had only lasted six romantic history was mainly comprised of one night stands and flings from his school days. What if Sherlock did say yes to whatever madness John proposed, it would inevitability end, and then where would he be left? Losing a friend, losing his home, and losing all chances of ever being close to Sherlock again. Was it really worth all that? He didn't know anymore. All he had thought about for the last two years was working up to this point, to telling him, and now he couldn't do it. He couldn't look Sherlock in the eye and say those three words that meant so much more than just a simple 'I love you'.

-o0o-

"John, are you in here?" Jack called as he walked into the bathroom.

"Ya, just finishing up." He replied as he dried off his face.

Jack rounded the corner from the door to the sink. "I've been looking for you every where. They said they are going to start boarding soon, and after seven hours I didn't think you would want to miss the flight." He laughed, quickly washing his hands before they left.

"You're not kidding!" He smiled as he pulled open the heavy door. Just as they got back to their seats, they were joined by a few others from their platoon and even some other soliders they hadn't met before. They smiled and joked, all just happy to be on their way home.

"Billy? Is that you?" John asked, looking at one of the soliders who had wandered in.

"Blimey! Captain John Watson, didn't think I would be seeing you again any time soon, 'specially not decked out in fatigues." The man laughed as he patted John on the back.

"Ya, been a few years I know, and I'm not as young as I used to be." He smiled, throwing his arm around his old friend.

"Well, neither am I!" He joked. Bill was older, but only by a year or two. He and John had met on their first tour, scared out of their wits. Though they still met up once and a while for a pint, it wasn't nearly as often as either man would have liked. "So John, what have you been up to since I saw you last? Still living with that Sherlock bloke?"

"Yeah, yeah. Still chasing criminals and solving mysteries, well when I'm back home at least. Other than that, just working at the surgery, keeping busy." John said, sliding away any mention of Sherlock. "What about you? Didn't think you'd be up for another tour."

Bill smiled, his eyes wrinkling around the edges. "I didn't either, but Queen and Country came calling..." He trailed off, his smile fading. "But this is it, I'm done. Suzy needs me home, so do the kids."

John thought back to the last time he had seen Bill's family, his youngest wasn't even born yet. "How is the family?" He asked looking over toward the other soliders off to the side.

"Oh their good." He said pulling a photo from his left breast pocket. "Tim's seven now, and that's Charles, he's five, and that little princess is Hannah, she is just about to turn three." He said as he pointed to each child individually.

"I didn't know you added a girl to the mix. Suzy must love that." John smiled as they started to line up for boarding. "Yes, she sure does." Bill said as they moved onto the plane. "Anyway, it was great to catch up. Keep in touch, we should go a pint and soon." He said as he waved and took his seat next to a civilian couple.

"Mmm, definitely, text me sometime. It was nice to see you Billy. " John replied as he moved to the back of the plane and flopped next to Jack, buckling his seat belt and grabbing one of the complimentary pillows under the seat in front of him.

Jack shot him a look and a little smirk, almost a full smile as he pulled out the paper from the seat pocket.

"Just wake me up when we get home." He laughed, before he closed his eyes and quickly attempted to dift off to sleep. At least when he was asleep, he could dream about Sherlock and Baker Street all he wanted, and it was almost as good as the real thing...almost.


	2. Chapter 2

"We will soon be landing at Heathrow Airport..." A male voice announced over the PA system.

A bleary eyed John, rubbed his hands together, stretching out his tensed muscles. He moved his arms over his head, pulling them up to release at least a bit of the stiffness in his shoulders.

He looked out the window and over the expanse of clouds, feeling his stomach turn as they started to move down and closer to the ground, or at least that's what he hoped was making his stomach do somersaults.

He had thought maybe the lengthy flight would give him time to calm down and decide what he was going to do about the Sherlock matter. And while it did give him time, he felt just uneasy as before, he heart still fluttered at every mention of him and his mind still told him this was a bad idea. He was still just as lost as he was all those months ago. But in the end he needed to stop pining after a man who (probably) had no idea or his harbored emotions.

Sherlock wasn't good with emotion, he broke down with even the mention of sentiment, still utterly surprised that anyone would ever want to put up with him. But John saw it as a delight and a duty, taking care of his impossibly long flatmate. Every time he got Sherlock to sleep even for an hour, or he was able to make him actually eat a portion of his dinner, or was able to calm the detective out of a frenzied state, it made him smile ear to ear.

God, he was in deep. He felt like he was stuck in a hole with no way out, either option leaving him with a no win scenario. Tell Sherlock how he felt and lose him forever, or keep on with things as they are, pining after him with every breath and always falling behind.

Even if he did tell him everything, explained it perfectly, he would never be good enough for the Great Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was perfect in every way. He had perfect skin and hair, perfect eyes that gazed into your soul, a perfect mind, and he could do anything and everything put to him, he was also perfectly insufferable. He was frustrating, annoying, maddening, childish, mean, harsh, and absolutely ridiculous all at once. But John even loved that side of him, because he realized that it was part of what made Sherlock who he was.

John reeled through their memories as he lifted his bag out of the overhead almost clipping and old man on the head. They moved silently through immigration and bag pick up, both Jack and John, lost in their own thoughts.

John was quick, wanting to say their goodbyes before he went out and say his family, knowing from what he had heard about them, they would probably swarm him pretty quickly.

They paused as they made their way to the door, giving John the opening he was looking for. "Jack...I just wanted..." He started, before Jack dropped his bags and hugged him.

"Sir, you were the best Captain, without you...I don't know if I would have made it home." He said as he pulled away from the stunned man.

"I'm sure you would have done just fine, a smart kid like you." He laughed. "Anyway, I just wanted to say good luck out there." John said putting his bags on the ground beside his friends, and patted him on the back.

"No, Captain, I mean it. Without you..." He said, letting out a deep breath as he went. "I don't think my mind would have made it back. A lot of men go mad in the war, you know that, you've seen it. I just, I thought about what you said earlier, and I think the only way I would be able go back would be if you were my captain." He finished, pinching the bridge of his nose.

John was touched, he hadn't expected this, he figured it would be a quick goodbye and maybe a pint in a few weeks, but not this. He always did all he could for his troops, because he realized being a solider and medic at that, was no easy feat. You had to be brave and courageous, but also strong willed with a stomach for gore, they all knew that one wrong move could cost more than one life. But John also knew that there was only so much he could do for his men, and being a strong captain was one of those things, but he never expected ti be thanked for it, he had always figured it was just assumed that a captain should act like that, after all that was his job.

He was speechless, he opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing happened. After a few moments, his voice finally returned. "Thank you, Jack. But...I don't know if I will go back, I'm not sure if I can." He said, thinking of the nightmares that would surely return as soon as he was home. He didn't have night terrors when he was actually in the war, probably because that was his reality. But what ever the case, they always returned. "You're right war does effect a person's mind, we aren't supposed to experience something like that, and if it doesn't effect you... well you're probably already out of your head." He laughed, although it was shallow and hollow.

"I just needed to say that." He frowned, trying not let his friend see the emotions on his face.

"Come here." John said as he pulled the younger man back into an embrace. "You are a kind and caring young lad, and you can do anything you want, if you don't want to go back, you don't have to. You have nothing to prove. Whether or not I go back, I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything. Is that understood?" John asked as he let him go.

"Yes sir." He said, giving him a goofy salute. "John? Will you come meet my mum?" He asked, his eyes hopeful and wide.

John knew that Jack's father had never been in the picture, he had never known why, but he knew he wasn't there. Over the past six months, they had formed quite a relationship, more of a father-son bond, even thought they were only ten or so years apart.

"Uh ya, sure." He said, following him out the far exit door. As soon as they got out of the door, Jack was swamped by several family members, all very excited to see him. His mom a slight woman with short pixie cut hair, pulled him over into a large group hug, tugging him down to her height.

Jack smiled as he attempted to straighten himself out after the the family hug. He pulled down his shirt and jacket, smoothing it out, before moving closer to him as he introduced him.

"Okay, Everyone this is John, and John, this is my mum, Karen. Um this is Tony, Amber, Patrick, and Jonah..." He said as he pointed everyone out.

"Hi." He said, giving a quick wave and a half hearted smile. "Everyone." He added at the end.

Jack's mother went up to him and wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you for keeping him safe." She whispered into his ear, giving him a final squeeze.

He nodded and they both understood, you're welcome.

"John, would you like to come for dinner with us tonight?" She asked as she stepped away, giving John his space.

"I would love to, but I can't." He said, rubbing the back of his shoulder. "But thank you for the invitation."

"Oh, of course, darling. Any friend of Jackie's is a friend of mine. Anyway, I am sure you have your own friends and family to go and see." She said as she put her arm around her oldest son.

John had to stifle a laugh at the mention of 'Jackie', covering it with a cough. Jack shot him a stern look, smiling at the end, letting John know he wasn't serious. "Yes, I do, speaking of, I should be off." He said giving Jack a firm handshake. "Don't forget to call me, we will go for a drink." He smiled as he picked his bags off the floor.

Jack laughed and said his goodbye as he walked off with his family, fooling around with his brothers and picking his sister up off the ground.

-o0o-

When John finally made his way out of the airport, his leg felt shaky and his heart was beating a million bets per minute. He was on his way home, he was on his way to Baker Street, he was on his way to Sherlock.

John jumped into the taxi, almost skipping. He was back, breathing in the cold london fog, hearing the noise of the city, and feeling the chill on his skin. This is where he was meant to be, he needed this. The cold air helped clear his head, erasing his thoughts, leaving his mind almost blank, except for Sherlock. No matter what he did, he couldn't get the pale eyed man out of his mind. It was as if he lived there, making his home in the corners and empty spaces.

The taxi pulled up on his corner, John just stared at his green door. He took a deep breath and stepped out, taking his duffel with him. Hauling it with him as he made his way to the door. For a second he considered knocking but then he thought about it, it was ridiculous for him to knock on the door to his own home.

He opened the door, pushing it open, smelling the overwhelmingly comforting smell. It smelled of dusty books, Mrs. Hudson's fresh baking, and coffee. John moved up the stairs hesitantly, making his way up the old, creaky, stairway.

When he got to the upstairs landing, he could hear someone moving inside. He could feel his heart speed up, (if that was possible), beating so hard it felt like it might fall out of his chest. Sherlock. He wasn't supposed to even be home. John had of course told him when he was coming home but as things do, things changed. He had come him two days earlier, he had hoped to maybe have a few minutes to himself before seeing his flatmate, but those hopes were now dashed.

Maybe it would be better this way, having Sherlock here, right from the off. Unless maybe that wasn't Sherlock, maybe it was a...stray cat? That crawled in the window? Or perhaps a bugular, or even Mrs. Hudson, doing a quick tidy around the flat.

Before John left, he had made sure to add a little to the rent in exchange for a bit of cleaning here and there and just general checking up on Sherlock. So at least the Mrs. Hudson idea sounded plausible, or at least in comparison to the cat bugular.

But who was he kidding, it had to be Sherlock, most likely moping around, bored, and in search of a case. Was this really the time to approach him with emotional matters, when he was already stressed and under worked?

No, yes, maybe? John didn't know! Sherlock always said that he was the one missing the social cues and conventions, but whenever it came down to the detective, Jo was just as bad, if not worse.

John ran his hand from his hair, gently placing his bag on the ground. He took a deep breath and then reached for the door.


	3. Chapter 3

One moment until he would open the door, one moment until he was back, one more moment, one more moment until he felt whole once more. Just that, one simple moment.

-o0o-

He flung the door open wide, pushing his way into the flat. Shockingly, nothing had changed the furniture was all the same and arranged in the same manner as when he had left. There were no (new) holes in the walls. Even his chair sat in exactly the same spot and was just the way he liked it, except for one major difference. The man who sat in it.

"John" He breathed, his voice hoarse and heavy. His eyes once again piercing through to John's very soul. He looked tired, more so than usual, the dark circles hanging deep under his eyes, only making them stand out that much more. He was just wearing pajamas and his silk navy dressing gown. He was so focused, focused on him. He had his thinking face on, taking everything in and biting it down to manageable bits before digesting it properly.

Joh stood stunned, unmoving. He was there, like he had been picturing for months. His curls falling into his face, his unblemished pale skin, his long and lanky frame curled into the chair.

Sherlock unfolded his legs, and slowly moved towards him. The way he moved was almost cat like, slow, steady, and cautious. He stopped only half a foot away, definitely invading the personal space boundaries.

"You are not supposed to be home until the 25th." He said, his tone stuck somewhere between friendly and growling.

It took everything John had, not to pull him down and kiss him. He wanted to though, he needed to. He needed to finally feel his lips, he needed to feel his touch, he needed to be close to him. But then he was snapped back into reality.

"Ya...they sent us home two days early, took me by surprise to." He said as he moved his bag to the base of the stairs, taking his jacket off and throwing it beside the duffel. Revealing the tight army green T-shirt he had on underneath, that one that clung ever so slightly to his well defined muscles, shaping in a way no one thought possible.

Sherlock didn't so much as change position, holding his stare from the center of the room. John didn't know where to go and didn't know where he could stand to get away from his gaze.

"So what have you been up to?" John asked, awkwardly shifting before taking his place in his chair.

Sherlock followed him, sitting in his own reserved seat, he brought his hand up to his chin, looking like a real life version of Auguste Rodin's Thinker. All of his movements were exact and calculated, moving so slightly that most people wouldn't even notice. But then again John wasn't most people. John was smart, logical, observant, nothing like Sherlock's powers of deduction, but he would like to think he had picked up a thing or two.

"Do you really think that is the best place to start?" He asked, lifting one of his eyebrows slightly.

"As good a place as any." John smiled as he shrugged his shoulders.

Sherlock glance glazed over him, before it turned to something else, the rain dropping against the window. "I'm sure you can imagine a question a least a tiny bit more creative. "

"I could do... How many times did you use while I was a way?" John asked as his eyes skimmed over him, looking for any kind of reaction. John had to admit, he was curious, although he didn't think he would ever get to ask the question. He had known he would use, it was inevitable. But the question was how many times.

Sherlock pursed his lips, forming them into a line. He pulled his legs into him, resuming the same position he had taken while sitting in John's chair. "Ten."

That simple number crushed John's heart, he knew Sherlock would use while he was away, but he had hoped he wouldn't. John sighed and scratched his head, taking that in. He had been clean for so long...

"Sherlock, you know what the drugs will do..." He started, moving into doctor mode.

"Yes John, I do. Which means I do not need a lecture on the health risks of drug use, I'm fully aware what will happen to my body, should I chose to continue in these behaviors." Sherlock said, obviously angry and his words a little harsher than necessary.

"Then why, why do you put yourself through this!? You do this again and again, just stop"

Sherlock frowned, his face easily falling into the familiar expression. "Because...without you, there was no one here to focus me. My mind is constantly running, it never stops, never gives me a moments peace. But you make me focus, hone in on what is important and weed out all the ridiculousness that I can't delete. " The deep baritone rumbled.

"I need you John. I need you to sort through all of the nonsense. Without you it is overwhelming and I do not have the capacities to cope." He continued.

"I cannot be here every single waking moment of your life Sherlock. I am not your babysitter, I am your friend. You will need to find a way to cope without using narcotics...yoga maybe." John chuckled, relieving some of the tension. He couldn't even imagine him doing yoga, bending his tall frame into shapes more ludicrous than the ones his already folds himself into.

Sherlock just shot him a look, careful, yet direct.

"I'm just saying, you might need to find a way to turn your mind off without using me or the drugs."John said, caring and compassion flooding through his tone. "I can help you Sherlock, together we can make it so you dont have to rely on that stuff."

"How can you be so sure, I am completely dependent on outside sources for comfort. Maybe there is nothing that will help, maybe I am destined to have a tortured existence."

John laughed. "You don't even believe in destiny, though, if there is one thing you believe in, it's the power of self. When was the last time you ate, or slept, of hell even showered?" John asked as he stood up and stretched out his legs which were starting to fall asleep after all the sitting he had been doing.

"Yesterday, Wednesday, and Monday...Respectively." He said, watching as John peddled across the room.

"Go take a shower, and then I want you in bed...asleep...within the hour. Rest, that will help." John smiled as he wandered into full doctor mode, it was a comfortable spot for him, taking care of others.

"John." Sherlock protested.

"Now." He ordered in his best captain voice, again falling into the role with ease after the last six months.

Sherlock reluctantly pulled himself to his feet and dragged his feet to the bathroom. Once John heard the water running and heard Sherlock curse at the cold water, he felt home again. John moved to the kitchen, bringing down his favorite mug from the middle shelf of the food safe cupboard. It was clearly marked, just in case Sherlock ever deleted it and went to use their dinner wear as a dissection plate for a frog or something.

Making his tea soothed him, it let him focus on just the steps from point A to Point B. Step by step, pouring water in the kettle, steeping the tea, adding his honey for that little bit of sweetness. It helped him feel normal, as if nothing had ever changed, as if he had never left, with the only evidence that he had, were his fatigues which were still on his body, the duffel by the stairs, and the tan lines that lingered on his skin.

By the end of the week, his army uniforms would be packed away in the back of his closet, his gun would be carefully placed in his safe (at last for a week or so), and he would only have the nightmares and memories to remind him of his most recent tour.

John sipped his tea, weary of the hot liquid, waiting for it to cool a little before taking a proper drink.

Sherlock suddenly emerged out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel around his waist as he ran a smaller towel through his dark wet curls. He was so gorgeous, water glistening off his white skin, dripping down...He had to look away, if he didn't Sherlock would know (if he didn't already) that he had been ogling him. John could smell Sherlock's expensive soaps and shampoo from the other side of the flat, and bloody hell, it turned him on.

He placed his tea on the coffee table, laying on the couch, stretching out his body. Even though he had slept almost the whole way from Germany, his body was still telling him he was tired. He really didn't want to sleep any more, because he realized that he wouldn't sleep that night, not that it mattered, the jet lag was setting in and he didn't

start at the surgery for another week and a half. So he still had plenty of time to work out his sleep schedule later in the week.

He sat up and rubbed his face, slowly letting his sleepiness fade. He turned on the TV and looked at his watch, it was only 3:00 pm. He flipped the channels until he found something kind of interesting, just a funny little sitcom. It made him laugh with some of the ridiculous puns and situational humor, and really that was all he could ask for, a laugh.

Sherlock padded out of his room, glaring at John as he sat on the sofa. His cold blue-geeen eyes, staring him down. At least he was dressed, now wearing a surprisingly sensible pair of jeans and a loose tee.

"You told me to sleep, but now you are taking my ability to away." He rumbled.

"Ear plugs, Sherlock. They are in the top drawer of your nightstand." He said, shaking his head.

Sherlock sighed as he stomped toward the couch and flopped down next to John, laying sloppily over the soft fabric. "They fog my mind, I need to have all my senses available."

"Well, I'm sorry, I have had a long day so far and just want to watch some telly. I'm not going to turn it off, when I know perfectly well you can sleep with it on." John argued. He had seen Sherlock sleep through car accidents, gun shots in a neighboring room, and crazy other amounts of noise. John was positive if he tried, he could sleep through a bit of TV.

The detective peered over, looking unimpressed by John's attitude. "You are the one who told me to go to bed, like a child, I might add."

"You were acting childish." He smirked, peeking at Sherlock to see a smile out the corner of his eye.

"My, my, aren't you a mother hen since you've been away. I don't remember you worrying this much while you were on leave."

"I hardly saw you when I was on leave. You running around London chasing criminals the whole time." John laughed.

He frowned. "Ten days. It was only ten days." Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?" He asked, feeling happy that they were able to start where they left off. That did scare him a tad. What if he never got out of the friend zone, or worse what of he got exiled from it forever?

"Nothing John, nothing." He smiled.

Just with that smile, John knew everything would be alright, no matter what, they would be alright. These two men had survived so much, serial killers, drug addiction, wars, and more. John knew that whether Sherlock accepted him or not, they would live through it.

"Don't think this means that I have forgotten about the drugs. We are still going talk about it." John reminded him, his tone once again falling to that of a solider over a civilian.

Sherlock just looked away, choosing not to respond. They just sat there, letting the television fill in the silence with white noise and the occasional laugh track. As the afternoon continued the light in Baker Street faded away, so did their stresses and troubles.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling his friend close with a strangely forward gesture. Shocked when he saw that he wasn't fighting it, before he quickly realized Sherlock was already asleep, so much for that. John gave a short laugh, that was one of his best moves. But at least he could always use it again.

It was nice to have have Sherlock curled into him, him warm body against his, his deep breaths brushing up on his neck. Scratch that, it was wonderful. He cherished this moment, all of it, he never wanted to let him go. John kissed Sherlock's forehead and smoothed down his wild curls with his free hand. This was were he was meant to be.


	4. Chapter 4

When John awoke, his neck was uncomfortably stiff and his body felt unusually warm. It took him a second or two longer than it should have to realize why, he was snuggled up against Sherlock. Sherlock, the man cuddled against him, is head laying on his chest, his arms wrapped around John's waist, and his breathing slow and steady, calming.

John slid his arm out from under the other mans frame, slowly letting the feeling return to his fingers. He wiggled them as gently as he could, bringing his hand up so it rested on Sherlock's back, and began tracing circles and patterns into his T-shirt.

He smiled when Sherlock unconsciously moved closer to him, his arms holding him in tight. Just one more thing that pointed to them being together, one more reason. They had a thousand others, but they always ignored them, but that had to stop eventually...right? Even if Sherlock was completely oblivious, he had to catch on sometime, maybe. But even if he did, what if he wasn't actually gay, or worse what if he was asexual, what then?

John could understand and maybe have a linger of hope if Sherlock told him he was straight, but if he was asexual...there was no hope left. But at least that meant that it wasn't just something against him, it wasn't his personality or his height or anything, it wasn't personal, it was just who he was.

It would still hurt like being stabbed in the heart a million times, but either way, he would have to respect whatever his decision was. Of course he would try and change his mind, but after that, he would respect it. It was this moment here that John realized that he was over...WAY over thinking things. He was talking himself out of it before he had even started. But it was too late for that, he had fallen completely in love with this beautiful dark haired detective, and there was no way to fall out.

-o0o-

Sherlock wiggled, nuzzling into John's shoulder. Suddenly, he shot up, his eyes wide, and his mouth slightly open as he realized what was happening. He looked at John like a deer in the headlights.

John pulled back his arm, unsure of what else to do, except offer him an escape. Sherlock sat up, leaning against the other arm of the sofa. He was soon standing, straightening his t-shirt and running his hand through his hair.

"Well." Sherlock said. "That's that." He finished as he walked off toward his room, firmly closing the door behind him.

That's that? That's what? John was stunned, he didn't move, he didn't know what to say or do, so he sat. He sat, and thought. Should he have said something, break the tension, or did he do the right thing, played it cool. Obviously Sherlock knew John had been awake, he knew everything. He had probably also knew that John had enjoyed their little cuddle session, definitely more than he should have.

But It wasn't like he could take it back, it was too late for that. He had two options, he could either apologize oradmit his feelings. Really neither option was ideal, but one of them had to happen eventually.

John stood up, with a new fire burning within him, he marched his way to his flatmates room and knocked. Nothing... He waited a few moments and knocked again. Nothing...

This wasn't going the way he wanted.

"Sherlock, can you come out here a sec." John called, making his voice quite a bit louder than usual.

The knob turned, giving John a little hope, then the door opened slightly, just enough to let him in.

John pushed the door a little further and made his way into Sherlock's room. He had never been inside before, never really had a reason to. It was stark, barely used, though his bed sheets were a mess and there was a small pile of clothing in the corner that gave it a semi lived in feel.

"What is it?" Sherlock growled, his back turned.

John suddenly couldn't think of his words. All the things he had run through in his head for the last few months vanished. It was gone, all of it. His mind was blank.

"What the hell do you want?" He spat, growing angry.

"I, uh..wanted to talk." John said, his voice sounding smaller than he had wanted.

Sherlock faced him, the lines on his face deep and the bags under his eyes dark. "Why? To humiliate me further?" Fury still under toned in his voice.

"What?! No!" John breathed, shocked almost. "What are you talking about?"

"That! You saw me, curled up to you like a lost and rejected puppy. It was pathetic." He said, his face falling.

John was so confused, he didn't even know what to say. Sherlock was acting like...well...John didn't even know. He was acting, hurt. But why would he be hurt, John hadn't even said anything yet! Really if any one should be hurt, it should be him.

"Stop." John commanded as he grabbed the taller man's shoulders. "Take a breath and talk to me."

Sherlock looked away, trying to avoid eye contact. " I don't want to." He mumbled.

"Well that is too fucking bad." John said, not angry but on the defense. "We are going to sit down and talk this out like adults."

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, something that John couldn't quite catch, but he didn't even care. Sherlock sat on the messy bed running his fingers through his curls, making him look even younger than he was.

"Now, do you want to start or should I?" John asked, taking the spot next to him on the large bed.

"Since you are the one that is so insistent upon having this conversation, social convention would dictate you would begin." Sherlock said, folding his arms, and then crossing his legs, and then just being fidgety. He was moving around like he had an embarrassing itch or something down his pants, like he couldn't get comfortable.

"Fine then." John said, still unsure how to word this. "I missed you."

"Obviously, we have been friends and flatmates for over two years, any change to your ordinary routine would cause a disruption to your emotions as well." He stated matter of factly.

John sighed. "No, I really missed you. I missed everything. I missed your stupid humming, I missed your deductions, I missed you crazy experiments, I missed your smell. I missed you, not the effect you have on my life or your friendship, which I certainly missed as well... but I missed you more. I missed not having you in my life." He let out a breathy laugh, almost shocked that he had made it to this point. After you have waited and dreamt of something for so long, the reality is just...strange.

Sherlock pressed his lips together like he was going to say something, but all that came out was a little "Oh."

"Let me finish...please." John said. "Sherlock, the reason I missed you so much was...well...because I love you. And I suspect you feel the same way." He finished, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

He didn't respond. Sherlock just sat there, like a statue, holding his place, forever still. John decided it was best to let him work it out on his own, work through what this could mean.

Sherlock promptly opened his mouth and then shut it, he repeated this four or five times over the next few minutes, looking almost like a goldfish, or so John thought.

When he finally did speak, it came as a surprise to both his companion and himself. "John. This will never work, you do realize that don't you?"

"What do you mean? Of course it won't work if we don't give it a shot, but if you are willing..." He said before Sherlock silenced him, interrupting him with his usual grace.

"I am married to my work. I told you this, I thought we were happy with everything the way it was." Sherlock said, calmly but his voice unable to camouflage the emotion like his face.

John shook his head. This was the rejection, the thing he had dreaded for so long, the dark shadow at the end of the long hall. "But things change Sherlock, they have changed. I love you, for God's sake! You can't tell me you don't feel that. You can be that unfeeling robot around anyone you want, but not around me...you can't fool me." John said, sadness leaking through his strong demeanor.

"That is not what this is about. I don't have time for a relationship, even if I did wish to pursue one." Sherlock said, brushing him off.

"You don't have time?!" John asked, lifting himself off the bed, anger bubbling through him. "You have more time than...No. This is about you, you are scared that you might feel something for someone, an actual living, breathing, someone. I'm right, aren't I?" John suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe, he was angry. He was so angry, at Sherlock, at his ridiculous reasoning, at his ability to stay so calm. " You can't do this. If you feel something for me, I need to know. I need you to tell me, I need you to say that you love me too."

Sherlock looked to the floor, his voice still booming and deep even though it was projected at the carpet. " I won't lie to you John, I have felt...certain things for you, on occasion, that reach beyond the platonic borders of our friendship. But I do not wish to pursue a relationship based on such feelings of whimsy and lust. I wish things to carry on and remain the same as they have, if you comply with my wishes, then I think it would be best if we just act like this never happened." Sherlock said with finality, folding his hands over his lap.

John was furious, he was shaking, but he did not want to hurt the man, the man who so easily held his heart. So he came up with an a plan of his own. "Alright. If that's what you want. But I have a condition, one condition. In three months, we revisit this conversation, we see if your feelings have changed. If they have, well then, that would be wonderful. If not, then we go on with things, never mentioning this again. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded, his curls ever so gently falling into his face.

John left the room feeling both dejected and proud. Proud that he was able to at least somewhat put Sherlock in his place, but also hurt that Sherlock rejected him so easily. But at least this way he had three months, three months to prove his worthiness, three months to show Sherlock how wonderful love, and feeling, and emotion, could actually be. Three months...


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, John laid out game plan, started planning this mission he had taken on. He hadn't slept very well, a combination of jet leg, night terrors and coming down from the high of finally telling Sherlock how he felt, but he still felt on top of the world. Nothing could bring him down, he had a chance. A marvellous, wonderful, crazy chance, to make this wild man fall in love with him. Not just in love, madly in love.

The only problem was, he had no idea how he was going to pull it off. He had to think of something soon, otherwise he would have already lost time. So he pulled out his brown leather note book and a pen and started planning. He started writing everything from date ideas, to possible gifts, even just little things he could do to remind Sherlock that he was around again.

It was so nice to be home, even though it had been less than a day, John felt rejuvenated. To be able to sleep in, without worring or being attacked in the middle of the night. That being said, he still had difficulty sleeping but at least he could sleep a bit better.

Once he had schemed and written down all he could think of, he started on breakfast. He popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and started on the eggs, nothing fancy just scrambled, but luckily for John it was one of the few things Sherlock willingly ate. Sherlock hadn't eaten at all since he had gotten back, making it at least a full twenty four hours since he had had anything. So john put another piece of bread in the toaster for him as well.

Soon breakfast was well on its way to being done, John's paper was laid out on the table and their mugs of tea were already in place. The only thing left to do was wake Sherlock...carefully.

John moved swiftly to Sherlock's door, being quiet and trying not to unnecessarily disturb him. He knocked once and then twice more when he didn't hear a response.

"Sherlock?" John called, his voice breaking and sounding too high.

He could hear a slight chuckle behind the closed door, that was a good sign...right? "Yes John?" The deep baritone replied.

"Uh...I made breakfast...you should probably eat something." He said, trying not to sound overly pushy.

"I am aware. What did you make?" He asked, the door still shut.

John coughed, trying to clear his throat, make his voice sound at least semi normal. "Scrambled eggs and toast...I also made some tea, if you want it." He said, he lack luster description making it sound horribly unappealing.

"Yes..um... I will be out in just a moment." Sherlock said, almost hesitantly. John had never heard Sherlock pause when saying anything...ever. He was always so confident and now it sounded as if he was almost shy.

It was strange, but John didn't want to draw attention to it, so instead, he just said, "okay" and turned away. He really didn't know what else to do. He walked back to the kitchen, excited about this makeshift breakfast date, he straightened up the kitchen, moved the dishes from the dish rack into the cupboard and did some general tidying. He sat down and had a sip of tea as he waited for the eggs. He stood up, laid the toast on the their plates and sat back down, wiggling his fingers and fidgeting. He just didn't know what to do except wait.

When Sherlock did come into the kitchen, breakfast was all finished, and just waiting to be eaten.

"Hello, John. " He said stiffly as he picked up the paper and sat down in his spot.

John laughed, unabled to stop himself. "We aren't doing this Sherlock. "

"What do you mean?" He asked, genuinely puzzled.

"We aren't going to sit here and have the most awkward meal ever. I'm not going to jump you, and nothing is changing, we can still have a normal breakfast together. You can still sit there and pretend to read the paper and I will still sit here and drink my tea, it will all be the same." John said awkwardly.

"It can't be the same! You have changed the basic dynamics of our whole relationship. We started as flatmates and grew into friends, but it was so gradual, I don't think either of us really noticed until it was too late. But this, to put it in terms you understand, this is a game changer." Sherlock said, his throat going dry as he spoke, but his concern showing through.

John smiled, hoping to look a little reassuring. "Sherlock, I'm not saying our relationship hasn't changed, I'm just saying, these things don't have to. Even if you did decide to turn this into a romantic relationship, we would still eat breakfast and run around the streets of London, and we would still have take away for dinner 90% of the time. That can all stay the same." He said as he looked towards Sherlock, peering into those beautiful eyes.

"John...What if it doesn't work out, you will leave me and I will be shattered. " He said, turning away from John's gaze and instead looking down at his eggs like they were the most fascinating things in the world.

"Is that what you are worried about?" John asked, shaking his head and grabbing Sherlock's hand that just laid on the table. "This isn't a fling, this isn't lust...God, I love you, you daft git!" John said, almost giggling.

"You're laughing at me." Sherlock stated, not as a question but just to voice it.

"I'm not laughing at you, I am laughing at the situation. I don't understand why you find it so hard to just accept that I am head over heels in love with you. " John said as he ran his free hand through his dirty blonde hair.

Sherlock pondered his words for a moment before responding. "Because you're not gay... You are Captain John Watson, straight, that is who you are! You're not the man who shags his flatmate on a whim!" He almost yelled, his voice booming around the flat.

John was angry now, this conversation was not going the way he wanted it to. "You're right, I'm not. This is not a whim and I am not just in it to get laid! I am in this for the right reasons Sherlock! I want to date you, I want to woo you with my charm, I want you to let me love you." He said desperately trying to win him over.

Sherlock's face crumpled and twisted into a odd shape, distorting his strange features even further. "Don't lie to me John, I don't know what this is about, but it is a cruel joke." Sherlock sputtered as he turned and walked out the kitchen.

"No, you don't get to walk away! You don't get to brush this off as another human thing that you don't want to deal with. This is too important for that!"John said, reaching out for the detectives hand, trying to pull him back.

"Don't touch me." He snarled, pausing slightly after each word.

John instantly let go and put his hand in his pocket. "Please Sherlock, don't do this."

He was met with only an icy stare and silence. He could feel his heart tear as Sherlock ignored his plea and headed back the way he came, leaving his cold breakfast sitting on the table.

"Sherlock..." John whispered, burying his face in his hands and going over everything he said and did wrong. Running over it in his head again and again like a bad film. "I love you..."

But his words floated into the dark flat, with no one but himself to hear his words of adoration.


	6. Chapter 6

John stood against the cupboard, slowly sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. The floor was nice, cold, and firm. From this angle John could clearly see where he linoleum had been scratch or had started to peel, spots that hadn't been cleaned...ever, and he could also see a few little holes in the wall that he had never noticed before.

He supposed some people would see it as a metaphor for their relationship. Overall it looked good, strong, steady, but when you got down to the nitty gritty, it was peeling, had secrets locked and tucked away, and there were holes and broken bits that neither of them had ever had the chance to acknowledge.

Maybe Sherlock was right...maybe he saw these things, maybe that's why he was hesitant. No, hesitant wasn't the right word, he was scared. John didn't know how to fix it, hell, how could he fix something when he didn't know what was broken? He loved Sherlock for who he was, but he was making this fight an impossible battle.

John had fought terrorists, been in gun fights, both saved lives and taken them, he had defused bombs, and had survived more near death situations than he could count. But this was...this was Sherlock. He couldn't treat him like a puzzle that needed to be solved, he was so much more than that. John couldn't even describe him, Sherlock was just Sherlock. That was the only thing that summed him up, and even that did a poor job. He was so unique. Every child is told that they are special and different, but they grew up to be ordinary and boring. Very few children actually grew up to be as special as they believed themselves to be.

But Sherlock...he was magical, he was awe inspiring, he was... everything. But John didn't know what he was doing wrong, obviously he was doing something but what?

John stood up, roughly pushing his weight up from the ground. He groaned as he shoulder pulled in the wrong way. He rubbed out the fire that grew into the old war wound, massaging the pain away. He closed his eyes and felt the pain recede, letting out a sigh of relief as it dissipated. John looked over the breakfast, still laid out on the table, although, now stone cold.

He reached over the table and grabbed his notebook from beside his plate of uneaten food, took a good look over the dark leather binding and chucked it into the wall. It hit with a satisfying thud before falling to the ground, it's pages opening to leave it splayed on floor. He wanted to scream. He was trying, he realized it had only been a few hours, but he already felt like he was drowning.

He just wanted Sherlock to love him, the way he love Sherlock. John didn't need to be romanced, he didn't need to go on expensive dates, and he didn't need to be pampered or catered to, occasionally it would be nice, but that's not the kind of man he was.

What was so wrong about John's love, what terrified him so much about being cherished? John wanted to love him so badly, he wanted to feel his lips against that pale skin, he wanted to feel his fingers in his dark curls, and he wanted to feel Sherlock's hands roaming across his skin.

He wanted all of that and more, but he wouldn't take it against his will. John was just frustrated, he knew that at least some part of Sherlock loved him back, maybe it wasn't the rational bit, but it was still something.

John made his way to the tiny cabinet above the fridge, his hand rooting it's way around for a few moments before it finally found it's mark. He pulled the small blue box down from the high cupboard, and breathed in it's dark, rich aroma. He held the carton tightly in his hand, grasping it with all his might.

He took each step with a new kind of dark enthusiasm running through his veins. He pulled open the slightly ajar sitting room window, climbing out onto the fire escape that lead down into a light but cluttered alleyway. He sat down, feeling the old brick against his back, breathing in the cold damp London air, the air he had dreamt about for months, now thick with fog and a soon to come storm, it was heavy and damp, but refreshing. It awoke him from his anger and he was soon feeling much more level headed.

But he still had the little blue carton of death in hand, and God dammit, he was going to have a smoke. He pulled out one of the many remaining cigarettes and rolled it over his fingers. He knew smoking was unhealthy, that's why he had quit years ago. But even then he kept his pack stored away for days like this. Days that he should have stayed in bed, days that he simply wanted to wish away.

He placed the thin cylinder between his lips, and pulled out his black lighter. It had been a gift, once upon a time, from an old army commander. He sat there, just savoring the anticipation for his semiannual cigarette, he could already taste it on his tongue, the flavor bringing back memory after memory.

He just listened for a bit, the cigarette still sitting unlit between his lips. He listened to the cars whizzing down Baker Street, the far off car horns and sirens, and the few drops of incoming rain that had just started to fall. He could stay dry, provided he kept under the ledge and went inside in a timely manner, but then again he wanted to feel the cool English rain against his dry parched skin. He moved himself a bit further from the ledge, edging closer to the railing.

Letting the few bits of skin he had exposed, drink in the frigid moisture. This was exactly what he needed he thought as his finally lit his prize. He inhaled, almost choking on the smoke before his body fell back into the old and familiar rhythm.

It tasted how he thought it would but the sensation and the experience exceeded his imagination ten times over. It was like welcoming an old friend home. John exhaled, a puff of smoke, disappearing into the rain. This was so relaxing, he didn't have to think about the war or about Sherlock, or about anything, he could just sit and listen to the drops of rain hitting the concrete below.

"John? John?" Sherlock called, the second time with a bit more urgency.

He stamped out his cigarette into the rusting metal, sad to see it end so soon, but interested to find out what on earth Sherlock was going to say. He climbed back through the window, and stumbled out into the living room.

"Yes?" He asked as he straightened himself out, looking at the tall, pale man in front of him.

Sherlock pursed his lips, thinking about what he was going to say. He started off slow, as he gathered his thoughts into words. "John... I want... I want you."

John felt his heart pick up pace as he digested what Sherlock was saying. But he knew better than to interrupt or get his hopes up. He looked over Sherlock, his eyes were red and puffy, and he was obviously upset. But John thought it best to finish what he was saying before he attempted to comfort him.

"But I feel highly unexperienced in this area, and at this time I cannot pursue a romantic relationship. I'm sorry John, I understand if you would...prefer to leave after this." He finished.

John smiled, his lips curling up over his teeth. "I'm not leaving you. But I would like to know, would you ever be willing to consider a romantic relationship?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. As I said, I feel very attracted to you...I...John, I just can't. At least not yet."

John rubbed his forehead as if trying to remove an invisible mark. "Why? Why not? Why won't you let me help you? Or at least let me try?" John begged more than asked.

"It's complicated. You can't just fix me." Sherlock said, desperation ringing through his voice.

"I don't think you need to be 'fixed'. Sherlock I love you just the way you are, even if you aren't perfect in your own eyes." John said, slowly shifting closer to him, treading cautiously. He didn't want a repeat of earlier.

Sherlock stayed quiet, not saying a word, just analyzing the situation around him. John carefully wrapped his arms around the lanky frame, he could swear Sherlock's hands were shaking, trembling against his touch. He went limp in John's arms, sobs suddenly wracking his body. It was like he was relinquishing all the control he had over his body and giving it to John. He was wrong, John wouldn't love him after this, John would take back everything he said, he would leave. But instead, John slowly lowered them onto the floor, his arms still tightly wormed against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

They didn't say anything, they didn't have to. John held him, pressing soft touches into Sherlock's back, as he continued to cry, letting out the emotions he had held onto for so long. He rocked them slowly, doing everything he could to make this pain go away. He just wanted to be here with him, holding him forever, just without the tears and the hurt.

After a long while the tears slowed and the sobs softened, John carefully loosened his grip, moving one hand into Sherlock's mess of dark curls. He was trying to be comforting, but he wasn't sure if he was doing it well or even right, he could only do his best. But he wasn't sure his best was good enough.

He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, nothing passionate or romantic, just soft. Something easy, something he didn't have to think about. He didn't know how long the had been sitting there for, but it was an immeasurable amount of time. All he knew was that by the time Sherlock stopped crying and looked up at him, the rain had stopped as well.

John couldn't stop what he was going to say, but he didn't really want to. "I love you. I love you so much." He looked into those crystal eyes, and he found himself lost, lost in the deep, feeling, and thoughtful eyes of the young man in his arms.

"I love you too, John. " He whispered he laid his head on his shoulder and continued to let John care for him.

"I know Sherlock, I know." He murmured, before pressing a second kiss to his face. He brought his hand under Sherlock's chin, using his thumb to wipe away the few remaining tears and brushed his finger across Sherlock's lips. The soft skin, warm against his skin, it was tempting.

Sherlock seemed to feel the same way as he lifted his head just an extra inch or two, using his height to its full advantage and pressed a soft kiss onto John's mouth. Both were unmoving, just accepting this new sensation, waiting to see what the other would do next.

Sherlock was in control, John didn't want to rush him, he didnt want to press him into anything he would regret, so he let Sherlock lead. He let Sherlock show him where to go and how quickly. Sherlock parted his lips, moving slowly, bringing his hand to John's cheek, feeling the warmth as John blushed.

John ran his hand down the detectives back, feeling him shiver under his touch. Much to John's dismay, Sherlock pulled away from the kiss, returning to their previous cuddle position, but even this was wonderful. He didn't need any more than this, this was perfect.

They just stayed there, John leaning back so they were laying on their shabby old rug, but it was comfortable enough that they could fall asleep in this position, quite easily. And that's what they did, the fell asleep in the comfort of each others arms, much like the first time, but this time, they were both aware of their positions.


	7. Chapter 7

The hot sun beat down on his already burned skin, making his fatigues feel a thousand pounds heavier than they actually were. There were beads of sweat dipping down into his eyes, making it difficult to see, but he didn't dare reach up to wipe it away. This was no place for luxuries, this was war, this was enemy territory, and this was life or death. He and his team waded through building after building of empty rooms, they held only smashed windows, barren cupboards, and little reminders that people had once lived here.

It was dark in the hallways, with the only light drifting in from each end, giving each hall a tunnel like effect. They wandered down each corridor, leaving no apartment or room unchecked. Jack was behind him, following closely, Henry and Blake were two floors down, resweeping for any trace of recent activity while, Tim and Andy stayed outside, keeping watch.

Every creak made his heart skip, but he stayed calm, that was his job. Even though he was a doctor, John and his team were regularly sent out looking for terrorist cells, IED's, and into other dangerous situations. But this was different, he didn't know why, but everything about it felt off, but he didn't back down, he just proceeded with caution.

When they finished one building, they moved onto the next, and so on and so on, until they finished the few blocks of apartments. John could understand why someone would want to live here, if it were kept up and part of the city, it would be beautiful. It had a wonderful park that would turn green with the rain, and the buildings were well built and had large flats...the neighborhood on the other hand. Gunfire, bombs, but good schools. John almost laughed at the thought.

Oh well, maybe in a different reality. But this was his reality, war. It first tour had been exciting, and nerve racking, and absolutely chaotic, but he had loved it nonetheless. He was addicted to the adrenaline and the danger. He craved it. But now it seemed to be more tiring and repetitive, his emotions and mental state draining away with each tour.

He was lost in his thoughts when he first heard it ringing through the air. Gunshots. They were coming from the left, no the right, he didn't even know, he just knew they were being shot at. He screamed at he men to get down but they couldn't hear him. He ran toward Jack, tackling him to the ground, pinning him to the floor. He didn't know what to do, he was lost.

Jack looked toward him, as if he couldn't hear anything he was saying, as if he was in a different world all together. Jack screamed at him, he simply watched as Jack threw him into the wall. He was stunned by it all, by everything. Jack was on top of him, his gun against his head. What was he doing? John tried to move, to escape but he was frozen. His body wouldn't respond or react. But eventually the shock wore off, releasing his body to its natural defenses.

He finally wormed his way out of Jack's hold, knocking the gun out of his hand. Soon he was on top of the younger man, his hand tightly gripping his throat. He could feel him squirm, he could feel him fight, John was hurting him, hurting his friend.

"John! Stop! John! Stop, please John!" He said, but it wasn't Jack's voice...it was Sherlock's. It was Sherlock begging for mercy, his deep baritone strung with emotion. But his eyes felt heavy, his whole body felt rigid, John couldn't move, he tried to blink, trying to peel his eyes open even just a little.

But when his eyes finally opened, he looked down, only to realize, it was no long Jack underneath of him, it was Sherlock. He wasn't in the harsh desert anymore, he was home, he was at Baker Street. But one thing hadn't changed, his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's long, pale, neck. It was tight, too tight, he couldn't breathe, John thought as he quickly let go and released him from the hold.

It was a night terror. It was over. He hadn't realized they would come back this strong, he could feel the overwhelming guilt rush over him. He should have known, he should have prevented this.

"Sherlock, oh god, I'm so sorry!" He said, watching as Sherlock move his lanky frame to the other side of the room, still coughing as he tried to regain the oxygen he had lost. John got up to follow him, but was stopped by the ice in those pale blue eyes.

"Out." He whispered, his voice hoarse and rough.

"Please, I'm sorry, you have..." John cried, trying to apologize.

"Get out!" Sherlock screamed, slamming his foot into the floor. "Just leave!" He yelled as tears started to fill his eyes

John didn't argue, he grabbed his old jacket off the coat rack and headed for the door. His body was still slow with sleep, but his mind was wide awake, terrified by what had just happened, of what he was capable of.

So he left. What else could he do? He wasn't going to fight it, because Sherlock was right. He needed to leave, he didn't want to hurt him any more. How could he have been so stupid? He ran over everything in his head as he walked into the rain. What he could have done differently, what measures he could have put in place to protect Sherlock, he went over everything he could have and should have done to stop this from happening.

But really in the end, it just hadn't occurred to him. He had never had violent or physical night terrors, so why would they start now? He plopped himself down onto a nearby bus stop, just thinking about his dream, it was so real. He couldn't shake the feeling.

When the bus came, he got on, not knowing where it was headed, not really caring. Where ever he was headed, it was away from Sherlock, and that was the important thing. But he did realize that he would eventually get off the bus and he had to figure out where he was going before he got to that point.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, it was getting old but it was still somewhat functional. He scrolled down through his contacts, wondering if anyone would actually take him in at this time of night. He scratched name after name off the list, he small list of contacts dwindling down more and more, until he saw the name of the one person who knew exactly what he was going through. He looked at the name for a moment before he hit call, trying to compose himself.

"Hi, Greg? It's John."

-o0o-

When Greg pulled up in front of the bus station, he felt more like a five year old headed to the headmasters office than a grown man leaning on a friend for help. He would call Lestrade a friend, after more than two year solving crimes together and the occasional pint at the local pub, ya, friend was a good way to describe him.

But that's not what this felt like, he felt like he was in trouble. And really he should be, or at least so he thought.

He opened the door to the black sedan, pulling himself into the car and out of the rain. If you could even call it rain at this point, the drizzle was almost over, nothing more than the occasional drop now. It was almost six a.m. but it still felt like the middle of the night. The sun was just starting to peak over the buildings and light up the sky with a million awe inspiring colours.

"Hey Greg, thanks for coming to get me." John said, sighing as he leaned into the leather seat.

"No problem, John. What are friends for, eh." He said as he pulled the car back into the street. "Where do you want to go?"

" I don't know. " John answered honestly.

Greg smiled, trying to keep it light. "Well, why don't you come back to mine, and we can have a nice chat?" He asked, sounding more like Mrs. Hudson than D.I. Gregory Lestrade.

John laughed at the thought. "God, Greg, you're starting to sound like an old woman."

"Well...ya, I guess I am." He said, trying to fight the odd comment before realizing it's futility.

John just sighed, letting himself relax at last. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension without being so obvious.

"So are you going to tell me why you were wandering the city all night, or do I have to pry it out of you?" Greg asked after a few moments of silence,

"Its a long story." John said, unsure of where to start.

Greg rolled his eyes. "You didn't wake me up just to say it's a long story." He said as he pulled into the only empty spot in front of a good of houses. "Come on, let's go in and you can tell me this long story in full." He said as he turned off the car, and slid out of the sleek car.

John followed behind him closely, mimicking his steps. "Greg." He said, taking a deep breath and exhaling.

Greg opened the door to reveal a modest but nice house nonetheless. It was obviously a bachelor pad, but it was clean, well kept and homey. "Make yourself at home, I'll get the tea." Greg said as he wandered down the hall.

John sat down in a large leather recliner, but instead on leaning back, he held himself forward, keeping his hands on his knees. They were shaking, they had never shaken like this, at least not this extent.

When Greg wandered back into the sitting room with to mugs in his hands, John was still sitting, straight as a plank and hands on his knees.

John looked at the older inspector, his eyes bloodshot snd red. "I...I don't want to hurt him anymore." John croaked, his voice breaking. " I need you to stop me, Greg, please."


	8. Chapter 8

Greg looked him over, taking a few moments to decipher what he was saying. "Okay, John, I want you to take a deep breath and tell me what the hell happened." He ordered, not even giving John a second to falter.

"I uh... things have been different since I came home, I told him..." He paused,relaxing how ridiculous this must sound to the older man. "I told him, I loved him."

"Keep going." Greg encouraged, prodding him to continue.

John sipped at his tea, which was too hot and not quite sweet enough for his liking. But he sipped at it to give him some more time to figure out how he was going to say what needed to be said.

"So I asked him how he felt, because, well, he is Sherlock. So he said he had feelings for me at one point in time but that he didn't want to give into such feelings of 'lust and whimsy', or some shit like that." John said before he ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair. "Anyway, I was relieved 'cause at least now I had a chance. But then he said he couldn't be in a relationship even if he want to because he didn't have time."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Well we both know that's not true." He laughed, trying to lighten the situation.

"Anyway after a few fights, he ended up saying what I wanted him to, he told me he loved me."

Greg pinched his eyebrows together and pursed his lips. "That's great, John! I don't see the problem, but I am assuming there is more to the story?"

John nodded, slowly, waiting to continue. " I...he...he was upset though, and I was trying to comfort him, so we ended up cuddling, and we fell asleep. Anyway I had a night terror, the worst one I have ever had."

The D.I. patted John's back, he knew about John's PTSD from his previous tours, but they had all thought he was healing, obviously this last tour had brought back some unpleasant memories.

" I was in Afghanistan, and we were sweeping a building, me and my team... anyway, one of my team, my buddy Jack, he tried to kill to kill me, and there was shooting, there was so much going on." John said, burying his face in his hands. "Anyway, I ended up on top of him, choking him...he kept asking me to stop, but it wasn't him, it was Sherlock. I mean it was his voice, begging me to stop. But I couldn't, I couldn't move. And then I was awake, I was in the flat, and I was on top of him, I was sitting on top of Sherlock, and... I was choking him, my hand was around his throat." John said, trying not to break down, and obviously failing.

"I tried to stop, Greg, I did. I couldn't. You should have seen him, the way he looked at me. He hates me." He finished, tears running down his cheeks. "I've never had them like that, but I should have been more careful. "

"John... John, look at me." Greg said sternly.

John shifted his eyes begrudgingly.

"This was not your fault, not one bit. You could have never known that was going to happen." Greg smiled, pressing his hand onto his shoulder. After a few minutes of silence he spoke again. "Well, I'm sure you are tired, hell, I know I am." He laughed. "I'll go make you a bed upstairs, then we can finish this when we are a little more clear headed."

"Thank you...for everything. " John said as he wiped away the last of his tears.

Greg nodded and smiled before he turned and walked up the stairs, each one of the older steps squeaking as he went.

-o0o-

John didn't wake up until almost noon, and even then he felt utterly exhausted. He rubbed his bleary eyes, attempting to wipe away the sleep. He stretched out his back and shoulders, looking quite awkward as he pulled and twisted.

The bed was surprisingly comfortable, considering the fact it had race car sheets. It must have been Greg's sons room before the divorce. John felt horrible, dumping his relationship issues on a man who just went through a divorce, but Greg knew Sherlock better than anyone, even better than Mycroft.

John stumbled down the stairs, almost falling at one point before he managed to gain his footing once more.

"Good morning, sleepy head." Greg called from the kitchen.

He sniffed the air as he made his way down the long hall. Something smelled amazing, he could pick out the coffee, toast, and other breakfast goodies wafting through the air, inviting him into the well-lit kitchen.

"Greg, you really didn't have to do all this, you have done enough already." John said as he leaned against one of the oak cupboards.

"Nonsense, it's nice having someone in the house to make breakfast for, and I happen to quite enjoy cooking, so it's no bother at all...As long as you do the dishes." He teased.

"You sure it's all right?" John asked.

The older man with the peppered hair, looked at him and smiled. "Go sit. I think we need to have a chat...about Sherlock."

John sat down at the small, two-person kitchen table, not really looking forward to this 'chat' and once again feeling more like a little boy in trouble than anything else.

Greg finished up with their breakfast and laid it down on the table before sitting down himself. It wasn't anything fancy, but it sure did look incredible, John was still used to army gruel, so having someone cook him a nice meal was a definite treat.

Greg took a few bite of his food before he started to speak, making everything seem very serious, as if he was preparing himself for what he had to say. "John, there's a few things Sherlock hasn't told you, but you I think need to know, at least before you get in over your head, so I am going to tell you. But I need you to not react, not yet, alright? " Greg said, his voice almost soothing.

Again he just nodded, unable or unwilling to say anything.

Greg sighed before beginning his story."When I met Sherlock, he was very young, he was, oh sixteen, always looking for cases, and putting his nose where it didn't belong. But after a while, he disappeared, I really didn't think much of it. After a year, he came back to me with some information about a murder, he was strung out on drugs, out of his head, and a bloody nightmare to deal with, but I humored him, because in the end he was also just a kid in trouble. Also, he was right, about everything, as always."

John was worried about where this was going, but gave a short laugh at Sherlock, even as a kid, being able to deduce anything about anyone.

"One day I was in a bad area of town looking for a suspect, when I looked into an alley and there he was. I found him, laying in the street, half dressed, high as a kite with a black eye and bruises up and down his body."

John flinched, even just the thought hurt him to his very core.

"He was unconscious, so we took him to the hospital and he had much more than just bruising. He had overdosed, he had a severely broken arm, internal bleeding, he had cigarette burns up and down his arms, mixed in with the track marks, he was a mess. Poor kid had been through hell and back." Greg continued, shifting his body in the small wooden chair.

"He had a lot of trauma, he had needed at least three surgeries, and was out of it for a long time. And even when he did wake up...he wouldn't speak for days. He would just sit in the bed and watch whatever horrible soap opera the nurses turned on." Greg shook his head, as if trying to erase the memory.

"He wasn't just beaten John... he had been sexually assaulted. He had been living with a man far too old for him, his dealer if I understand. He had been abused for so long, he had basically shut himself off, using drugs as his escape. That day I found him...was the day he had tried to kill himself." Greg said, looking at John, gauging his reaction, trying to see if he was alright to continue.

"That was the first in the line of four following horrible, abusive, and down right wicked relationships. He has been beaten, drugged, abused...John, he doesn't know what love actually feels like. I was amazed when he let you into his life at all, and I was down right shocked with what you told me last night. But you need to understand, what you are getting into."

John nodded, his mouth moved but no words came out. He coughed and tried again. "Why? I mean...why didn't anyone save him?"

Greg frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down. " I tried, Mycroft tried, we did. But he didn't listen, Mycroft sent him to rehab, god knows how many times. I let him stay with me, kept her eye on him. But he always went back to the drugs and he always got into the same situation. He only stopped...when he met you. As far as I know, he's clean, but I can't know for sure." He said, desperate for John to know that he did try.

"But that's not good enough! You should have stopped him!" John said, his voice raised.

"I know, I know it's not. But we did our best." Greg said. "But now you know why he reacted the way he did, when you had your...your thing."

"He probably thinks I will be that same way! How will I ever get him to trust me again?!" John said, despair running though his voice. He was angry, he was angry at the people who had done these things to Sherlock, he was angry at the people who couldn't protect him, and he was angry with himself for trying to force Sherlock into a relationship.

"How could you have known, John? This isn't your fault, it's no ones fault."

"Well then, why do I feel like it's my fault?" He asked, his mouth turning down.

Greg smiled and patted his back. "Because you love him. That's what love does to you."

" I don't know what to do. I don't want to hurt him." John said, trying to hold back his emotion, he was a soldier for god sakes, soldiers didn't cry. Even though John knew that was a lie, that's what he told himself. Soldiers were strong and tough as nails, or at least they were supposed to be, in his mind.

"It's alright. If he loves you, everything will work out just fine."

John looked at him and rolled his eyes."You can't say that! Not for sure! "

Greg stood up, taking their plates with him and placing them in the sink. He looked around for a dish towel, not finding any he wiped the water off his hands and onto his shirt. "Did you ever consider, maybe I'm not the best person to come to for love advice?" Greg asked, still leaning over the sink.

John sighed. "You know that's not what I meant. I'm sorry Greg." John apologized, remembering how kind it was of Greg to take him in for the night. "I better get going. I don't want to bother you much longer." He added with a weak smile.

"You know you can stay here as long as you need, no one is forcing you out." Greg said, turning on his heels to look at him.

"I know...but I think, right now, I need to go talk to Sherlock." He replied, rubbing his neck.

Greg smiled. "You two do have a lot to work out. But...if you ever need anything, just let me know. Alright?"

"Yes, Sir." He said with a little laugh, doing a mock salute. "Old habits die hard."

And with that, he was on his way, out the door, and headed back to Baker Street. He wandered through the rain, until he finally caught a taxi. By the time he got into the cab, he was soaked to the bone. But he could really care less, too many other things on his mind at the moment. He wasn't sure how he would approach the subject, but he was sure to figure out a way. But first things first.

Can I come home now? - JW


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the start of Sherlock's point of view! I know, very exciting, I hope you all enjoy!

Maybe. -SH

Maybe?-JW

I am undecided. -SH

Please?-JW

Fine.-SH

-o0o-  
.

Sherlock anxiously twiddled his fingers...his heart skipping a beat every time his phone buzzed. But he didn't want this, any of it. He didn't want John, he didn't a skipping heart, and he most certainly did not want the butterflies that were currently fluttering around his stomach. He didn't want to be loved.

Love was irrational, love was ridiculous, love was frustrating and heartbreaking, but it was also wonderful. He couldn't have wonderful, he didn't deserve wonderful, at least not when he couldn't return it.

Sherlock knew that he couldn't accept John's love, especially when he knew he would just end up hurting him. John didn't deserve that. John deserved a loving family, a wife willing to bear him 2.5 perfect blond haired, blue eyed children, a large dog (probably a golden retriever or a lab), a white picket fence, and a quaint country cottage where he could live out his days in peace. John deserved a nuclear family, after being raised by a single mother and having an alcoholic older sister, that's what John deserved.

But that's not what he wanted. He wanted the impossible...he wanted Sherlock.

Sherlock was broken though, he was unfixable, he was beyond repair, without hope. Really, nothing could make him change his ways, not even the promise of his glorious doctor. Sherlock was a genius, but it didn't take one to see that this would only end in heart break and sorrow.

He tried to think of ways to tell him, reasons why they shouldn't be together (he had plenty), he tried to think of a way to end this that left their friendship intact...he couldn't think of any way he could make that happen.

He knew he loved John, but he didn't understand how he could allow himself to love again, not after all he had been through. He had been broken too many times. But John wasn't mean or heartless, he was kind and caring, he wouldn't hurt him like that. Sherlock knew these things and yet he was still scared of him. He was scared of this man who had been his friend for so long, and yet he still couldn't shake it from his mind. The harsh, cold pain of his fingers wrapping around his throat, the inability to breath, all of it far too familiar for his liking.

-o0o-

Sherlock jumped as he heard the downstairs door unlock, he wanted to run to the farthest corner of the flat and hide, but instead he just dug his fingers into the leather arm rest of his chair. He had to hold his ground, show himself he could do it. He took a deep and unsteady breath, trying to calm his nervous heart...and failing.

Now he just had to wait, wait for John to open that door and see what a mess he had become. His knuckles were white from pressing into the chair so hard, his curls were matted into each other, facing this way and that, and his skin was so pale (more so than normal), some would liken him to a ghost.

He couldn't handle not knowing what John was thinking, normally he could practically read minds, but now, with John...he was clueless. Was he angry at me? Is he upset with himself? Why has he been gone so long? His mind was fuddled with all these questions and more, but he didn't have one answer for any of them...

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice ringing through the corridors of his mind palace, puling out of his abundance of thoughts.

He lifted his head, suddenly holding a gaze with the sturdy man in front of him. His bronzed skin standing out against his sandy hair, and his blue eyes like an oasis in the middle of a desert. "Yes, John?"

The corners of John's mouth curled upwards, hinting at a smile until John froze for a moment, almost as if Sherlock's response had actually stunned him. "I...I am so unbelievably sorry Sherlock. If you could find it in your heart to forgive me for being such an absolute git, that would make me so ridiculously happy."

"What do you mean? What happened was beyond your control, how can you apologize for something you had no power over?" Sherlock said, his skin shivering as he spoke, showing the fear he tried so desperately to hide.

John broke their shared stare, instead refocusing his eyes on a distant point. "I should have protected you. I should have realized night terrors were a possibility, especially since I just got back...I just... I have never had one like that, I have never lashed out or been violent...I'm just so sorry."

This was different. Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He had never actually had someone apologize for something like this. Obviously it wasn't okay and it couldn't happen again, but something inside him just wanted to comfort his hurting solider.

"All is forgiven." He said, trying to brush it off as a casual statement, which of course it was anything but.

"No, Sherlock. I don't just want to be forgiven, I mean I do, but you have to mean that. It wasn't like I stole the last of the milk...I could have killed you." He said, breathing out that last bit.

This time he visibly shivered, his body doing a quick tremble. Sherlock could feel the hairs in the back of his neck stand up and the goosebumps rise on his arms. "Do you think I am an idiot? I understand what could have happened more than you realize, but the fact of the matter is that it didn't happen. I also have considered the severity of what transpired and I have deemed it unlikely to happen again. So although I hate to repeat myself, all is forgiven." Sherlock snapped, definitely more defensive this time round.

"Why is it so unlikely to happen again? As you said yourself, it was beyond my control. It could happen again, Sherlock." John said, stepping closer before falling into the chair across from Sherlock.

"It won't happen again, because I won't let it." He said sharply.

John squeezed his brows together, holding them like that until Sherlock was sure they were stuck that way. "What do you mean?" John asked.

"This is it. We tried, it failed. It was a failed experiment, John. Now it is time to push this all aside and move on. Don't you agree?" Sherlock asked as he jumped up and started rummaging through a stack of papers that lay on the desk. "In fact, I think I had some new evidence on a cold case that I wanted to look over."

"No." John said quietly, too quietly to be heard over the shuffling papers and files.

A pair of pale greeny blue eyes looked over at him. "What was that John? You really must speak up."

"I said no. I'm not going to let you throw this away and hurt both of us because you are frightened." John said much louder, before standing up and following Sherlock to his desk.

Sherlock turned around, his back arching against the dark wood desk, his nails scratching into the varnish. "I'm...I'm not sure that's your call." He replied, all while silently cursing the unsteadiness of his voice, giving way to the fear he was trying so desperately to cover.

John stopped moving when he saw the look on Sherlock's perfect face. His eyes were wide, his mouth was pressed into a hardline, and his breathing had become rapid. John had seen all this before, hell, he had experienced it. Sherlock was having a panic attack.

Sherlock could feel his mouth go dry, he could feel his heart speed up, and he could feel the dread set in. No! No! He screamed at himself. He couldn't allow himself to shut down like this. Stop! He yelled, his inner voice echoing though the now empty halls of his mind palace.

It didn't help though. His body was already in self destruct. All he could do now was ease his way through the attack.

"Sherlock, come back to me. Breathe, I won't hurt you. Just take deep breaths, mimic me, please Sherlock." John said quietly, trying to calm him.

He watched John carefully, following his movements exactly, inhaling, relaxing, and then exhaling, perfect to a tee.

"Sherlock, I'm going to help you move you to your chair."John said, gently putting his hand on Sherlock's waist.

"No! Stop!" He screamed, the blood draining from his face.

John jumped, taking a few steps back, trying desperately not to make the situation worse. He couldn't remember anything from his medical or army training. What was he supposed to do?

Sherlock clung to the desk, working his way around the corners, slowly making his way to his chair. He pried his fingers off the underside of the desk and pushed off and towards the old leather seat.

He was shaking, his hands moving of their own accord as he move into his spot. He tried to continue the deep breathing, but his body wouldn't let him. He knew what was happening but he couldn't control it, but for the life of him, he couldn't think what to do next, and his heart felt like it was ripping out of his chest.

He reached his hand out to John, his eyes pleading with him. "Please, John. Help me."

John wanted to run to his side, but he knew that wouldn't help, so he walked, making his movements soft and gentle. "I'm here. Sherlock just breathe with me." He said as he knelt beside the chair. He reached up and smoothed down his sweat soaked curls, and kissed his forehead.

John leaned over the arm rest, grabbing the remote control from the side table. He clicked the tv to life and waited until a picture appeared. It was some news anchor reading off the latest story, nothing interesting of course, but it would work.

"Wha..." Sherlock started to ask before John interrupted.

"Shh. Dont ask, deduct. Tell me everything you can about this poor woman." He said, trying to take his mind off things.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "First off, she's not poor. She was born into money, strict parents at that. She has been divorced three...no four times. One child, most likely a son." He said as he rattled off everything he could think of, whether it was right, wrong, or just a long shot.."She paints in her spare time, she has two small dogs, and I think that's. It for now."

He seemed much calmer as he focused his attention on his deductions instead of his panic attack, though his hands were still a little shaky. "Im going to make you a nice cuppa, and maybe even grab you a biscuit or two. Alright?" John asked as he started to stand.

"Yes." Was all he could manage.

He watched as John walked into the kitchen, his body moving so gracefully, very unusual for your everyday solider. But than again John wasn't an everyday anything. He was tough and tender, he was strong yet gentle, he was young but wise, he was a man full of contradiction. On top of it all, he really did have a great body, he had rippling muscles, good proportions, and a killer arse, an arse so wonderful, even Sherlock had a hard time keeping his eyes off it.

It killed him when John left, but more so when he returned. At least while he was away, Sherlock could focus on the work on the cases, but now there was no work. There was just him and John, and talking that waited to be done.

John smiled as he returned, carrying a tray with two cups of tea and biscuits as promised. The tea smelled amazing, like perfection. He took his plain old mug off the tray and tasted it and it lived up to its smell in every way.

"I feel much better now." He said with an almost genuine smile.

"Im glad." John replied, still smiling.

They sat like that for a few moments of silence, both just drinking their earl grey, and both happy that the episode had passed. When Sherlock finished his tea and cookies, John snatched his empty cup and placed it on the tray with the other dishes and brought them to the kitchen sink.

"John?" Sherlock called, his voice a tad higher than normal.

The doctor poked his head out of the kitchen, his expression slightly worried. "Ya?"

"Just..." He paused, not knowing how he was going to finish his sentence. "Thank you."

John's worry disappeared as quickly as it had come, his face and body releasing the new found tension. "You're welcome." He said, before heading back to finish the dishes.

-o0o-

They had a pretty quiet afternoon after that, the telly staying on and providing background noise as a bit of a distraction. John cleaned up the mess the had made the night before and did what tidying was left. Sherlock busied himself with an experiment involving the throwing speed of eggs, cooked vs. raw and every variant in between. John just watched and rolled his eyes as Sherlock chucked egg after egg at the wall, trying not to think about the floor he just mopped. Finally he just left Sherlock to his experimentation, trying to put the mess out of his mind.

"John! I need more eggs!" Sherlock yelled up the stairs after a little while.a

"What do you mean? We had three cartons in the fridge!" John yelled in response.

Sherlock threw the empty cardboard carton at the wall. "Gone! I need more eggs to finish the experiment! "

"What do you want me to do about it?" John asked as he padded down the stairs from his room.

"Buy more eggs, of course." He said as he crossed his arms.

John grabbed his old jacket off of the coat tree. Even though it was a warmer day out, he still hadn't acclimatized to the English weather, so he had taken to wearing layers and a jacket at all times.

"You know, you could go to the store yourself. "John chuckled at the idea of Sherlock fighting with a chip and pin machine. "Is there anything else you might want or need while I am at the store? Because if there is, you'd better tell me now."

"Yes, more of those biscuits we had earlier, they were quite good." Sherlock replied as he watched John's jaw drop.

John quickly recovered from his shock. "Is that all?" He asked, smiling as Sherlock took a moment to think.

"Just one thing." Sherlock said as he sauntered over the shorter man. He took his face in his hands, and placed a simple and gentle kiss on his cheek, before letting him go and stepping back. "Now you may leave."

That was a surprise John couldn't as easily come back from. Sherlock smiled as John's cheeks turned red and he became slightly flustered. "Alright then." He said as his grin grew, leaving both men unbelievably happy and satisfied.

"Eggs, John. I need eggs."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I owe you all an apology. I am wickedly bad with deadlines (as previously seen). So no more deadlines and hopefully semi regular, unpredictable posting! Sorry! Anywho onto what I am affectionately calling the Long Awaited Chapter. Hopefully this makes up for my absence, but if you all chose not to forgive me...thats okay too. I might just cry a little

"You know, you could go to the store yourself. "John chuckled at the idea of Sherlock fighting with a chip and pin machine. "Is there anything else you might want or need while I am at the store? Because if there is, you'd better tell me now."

"Yes, more of those biscuits we had earlier, they were quite good." Sherlock replied as he watched John's jaw drop.

John quickly recovered from his shock. "Is that all?" He asked, smiling as Sherlock took a moment to think.

"Just one thing." Sherlock said as he strood over the shorter man. He took his face in his hands, and placed a simple and gentle kiss on his cheek, before letting him go and stepping back. "Now you may leave."

That was a surprise John couldn't as easily come back from. Sherlock smiled as John's cheeks turned red and he became slightly flustered. "Alright then." He said as his grin grew, leaving both men unbelievably happy and satisfied.

"Eggs, John. I need eggs."

-o0o-

Sherlock waited patiently (well as patiently as he could) in the empty flat. Though at one point he even considered calling Greg and looking for a case, but he decided against it. His mind was far to preoccupied with John at the moment.

He couldn't break the image of the blonde solider and the look on his face as his lips made contact with his cheek. His pupils going wide and skin flushing. When he placed his hand on his neck, he could feel John's pulse go rapid, he could hear his shallow breaths and feel them against his skin. He was absolutely intoxicating.

Even just recalling the memory made him aroused, eliciting all the same responses that John had so openly shown. But still mixed in with the excitement and heat, there was a twinge of fear hidden beneath. The gesture as a whole, had been meant in sweet and innocent manner, but there was so much more to it,there was also the promise of things to come.

So instead of calling Lestrade, he laid on the couch, holding his fingers (steepled under his chin) straight and firm. He sat is the greying outside light, not bothering to actually arise from his semi-comfortable position and flick on the lamp. It really wasn't that far, only being a foot or so out of reach, but it was still much more effort than he was willing to exert.

It was at this moment, as he weighed the effort versus the reward, that the doorknob turned. His eyes turn instantly to the brass fixture, watching it squeak as the gentle force was applied.

"Sherlock, a hand please?" John called from the other side of the door.

He wanted to jump at the invitation, but he also didn't want to seem overly eager. "John, what is so impossible about opening a door?" He questioned sarcastically.

"Well, if you really must know, I am carrying six bags of shopping, my keys are in my pocket, and you, for some unfathomable reason, decided to lock the door." John called, as he struggled to keep the stretching plastic from snapping.

Sherlock moved to the door, cautiously pacing his steps. He unlocked the door in only a few seconds, turning on the main light while he was up. He smirked from behind as John lifted all the groceries onto the table. Watching as John extended himself, reaching over the table. It made him shudder.

What was happening to him? He was not a physical yet both his mind and body seemed to be disagreeing on this matter. He was so conflicted. John muddled him, keeping him at an uneasy place between love sick and unemotional. Is this how everyone felt, or was it just him?

He didn't have the time or the brain power to waste thinking about something so mundane and ordinary, he really should have been thinking about more worthy plots and schemes...and yet the only thing in his head at the moment was Captain John H. Watson and that stupid little smirk that currently resided on his perfectly pale lips.

"God dammit, Sherlock. If you don't take your eyes off me, I will never get these groceries put away, which means no eggs for you." John said, his lips still curled at the edges.

He moved his way into the kitchen and leaned against one of the counters, his eyes on John the whole time. "I don't want to. Besides, you are much more interesting than eggs."

"For the moment, anyway." John said with a quick laugh, trying to push away the obvious sexual tension.

Sherlock watched him, as he removed each item from the bag and put it in its respective place. It was actually interesting to watch him. Watch how he did everything is such precise and calculated moves. Most soldiers relied on instinct for the most part and very little planning, but doctors, they were ever so careful. Just one more reason John was a complete contradiction.

It was silly and useless to think this in depth about something as simple and mundane as putting away groceries, and yet Sherlock found it increasingly difficult to look away.

"Seriously, either you help put away the shopping or you stop staring at me. Those are you two choices." John sighed, throwing his now empty hands in the air. "Because if you are going to keep staring at me like a Christmas dinner than you will have to go into the next room."

"I detest both of those, so called 'choices'." Sherlock said with a mischievous smirk.

John just shook his head. "So basically you are just going to keep on."

His answer was straight and to the point. "Yes." And that was all he needed to say.

The doctor sighed and just continued what he had been doing previously, but now quite conscious of the man behind him. He could feel the ice blue eyes follow him around the kitchen, eyeing him when he would reach for a top shelf or bend down to grab something from below. Although it was a little uncomfortable, John couldn't help but feel proud. He had captured the attentions of The Great Sherlock Holmes, at least for the moment. Even if this was all he got, he would be content. Even though he wanted him, and for some reason Sherlock was attracted to him, John could barely feel worthy of such a man. Yes, he was annoying and irritating (and ya, okay, a tad bit mad), he was so superior. To everyone. But he was also a genius who looked like a god, he was talented and strategic, he was galient and brave, he was amazing.

"John, would you please stop thinking. You are practically shouting at me." Sherlock said sternly, interrupting him before he could get to anything to naughty.

"Well I can't help it, you're the mind reader." John said with a grin, knowing that Sherlock could hear that in the tone of his voice.

"I am hardly a mind reader, I just know you." Sherlock chuckled as he repositioned himself in the kitchen chair. "And even if I was, its not like I could turn it off."

John finished putting the last box in the cupboard and leaned his back against the counter. He smiled as he looked over the dark haired man in front of him. He ran his eyes over that smart ass smirk and it was all he could do to not grab him and throw him on the floor and take him. John dug his nails into his jeans, using the pain to ground himself.

"John..." Sherlock started, before a look of realization was pulled over his face. Sherlock stood up, and started toward the blond. Sherlock pressed his palm to the doctor's cheek, feeling his heart beat rise when John's eyes met his.

John closed his eyes and pulled Sherlock's hand away from his face. "Sherlock, this isn't a good idea... I don't want to hurt you."

A look of surprise and shock quickly replaced the sultry expression on his face. "I thought this was what you wanted. I thought you want us, this way." He said, taking a step away.

"I do. God, I really, really do. But Sherlock after this afternoon, and all that you have been through." He shook his head. "Just not tonight, one day, and hopefully soon. But not now." It broke his heart to see the hurt in his eyes. The one thing he didn't want to do, he had done.

Sherlock turned on his heel and left the kitchen. He didn't need to say anything more. He had been rejected, again. John was constantly changing his mind. Yes, I love you, I want you. Then as soon as Sherlock reciprocated he was shut down. He couldn't take all the up down.

He left the apartment, slamming the door as he went. He could hear john shuffle back towards the door, but he didn't care. He was angry, but he was also hurt, he just didn't want to accept that.

"Sherlock, come on. You know this isn't about me not wanting you." John called down the stairs as he ran behind him, not even caring if Mrs. Hudson could hear. "This is about me wanting to do things the right way." He said as he caught up to him along the street.

"This is about your pride!" Sherlock spat.

John's jaw dropped, his mouth hanging open, as if someone was holding it that way. "This is not about my pride! How could you even think that!? Bloody hell!" He shouted, struggling to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

"You dont want a relationship, you want me occasionally, whenever you feel like it. And thats all, God forbid, I actually want you for once!" Sherlock screeched, his voice booming down Baker Street, only muffled by the traffic.

John pulled on Sherlock's sleeve, forcing him to stop. "Sherlock. I love you. This isn't a sometimes thing. I love you every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day. It never stops. Because that's what love is." He said as he pulled Sherlock down and forced their lips together,

Sherlock tried to wiggle his way out, but easily failed, only to give in to the kiss. Give in to the lips that were pressed against his, give in to his wants and desires, give in to John. It wasn't bad, it was actually quite nice. They should be doing more of this, Sherlock thought as he parted his lips and let John's tongue dive inside.

For once John wasn't thinking about what people thought, or what they would say, all he was thinking about was Sherlock. If this is what he wanted, this is what he would get. As long as it wouldn't hurt him or the relationship, John was all in. They were well past the point of turning back, anyway.

Sherlock pulled back, keeping his hands around John's waist. He looked into his absolutely stunning eyes, and he knew. He was John's and John was his. His soldier, his doctor, just his.

"I love you.",

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awe! Well hopefully you all liked it! Feel free to leave a review (pretty pretty please) or a comment. And just remember the more you review the more I write!


	11. Chapter 11

As they clasped their hands together and walked back down Baker Street, Sherlock (for once) didn't know what to do. Where did he put his free hand, did he put it in his pocket, did he just leave it to his side? He had never really held hands.

His previous relationships were not sweet or light, for the most part they were made up drug-fueled sex. There were no light touches, or little kisses, and definitely no hand holding. There was rage, pain, fighting, and drugs. There was always drugs.

Sex exchanged for drugs or money, either or would work. Anything to get another hit, anything. He had done what he thought was best...at least at the time. And he had really thought he was in love, in love with the men who enabled his addiction, who beat him, who really didn't care about him, all just because the could. Because really he was just one more toy to them.

At first he used the drugs to stop his mind, free it from the weight of his thoughts. And then he used to stop the withdrawals. And then he used, just to stop all the pain, to stop everything. If he could get enough to overdose he would. It was easier that way,

"Hey, are you alright?" John asked, stopping in his tracks once he noticed Sherlock's broken face.

Sherlock wondered for a moment, am I alright? No, the answer was no, definitely not alright. "I'm fine, just thinking." He lied.

John shook his head. "Sherlock. Don't lie to me. What's the matter?"

"Nothing, John. Really." Sherlock said soothingly.

John sighed. "Fine." He said as they reached the green door that marked their home.

Sherlock just stayed silent, opening the door gently. His face was completely expressionless as he tried to replace the horrible memories that were replaying in his mind.

John smiled weakly, watching as his blank face slowly faded. "Do you want a cuppa, maybe Earl Grey? " He asked, attempting to sound something comparable with upbeat.

Sherlock shook his head.

"something to eat?"

Nope.

"We need to talk." John said after thirty very quiet minutes.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "That seems to be all you want to do these days, talk about one thing or another. What is it this time?" He asked begrudgingly.

"Are you upset?" John asked, starting to feel seriously concerned.

Sherlock scoffed. "Really, John? Of course. It's blatantly obvious I am upset, even Anderson could catch on."

"Okay, first stop that. You are acting like a complete child. Second, you have to tell me what I did, of if this is even my fault, 'cause I have no idea what the hell is going on. One minute we are snogging like hormone infused teenagers and now this. If we are going to do this, you are going to have to let me know what I did wrong." The blonde said, trying to keep calm. "I just want to help."

"I do not want to talk. And I certainly do not need your help." He said slowly, his voice dangerous and thick with fury.

John kicked the wall, leaving a small but visible dent in the hall. "Then tell me what the fuck it is that you do want!" John yelled.

"I want to be alone." Sherlock said, his voiced raised but still nowhere near John's.

"No. We are grown men and we are going to talk this out like adults. "

"Talk about what, John?! Talk about the past? Or maybe we can talk about your past for once, your PTSD, the fact you tried to kill me in your sleep, or maybe just maybe about the fact that you stopped seeing your therapist when it's very clear that you still need her!" He screamed. His voice blaring through the flat.

The usually passive and calm doctor, now picked up a book and hurled it at the wall. "How'd you even... I am fine! Last time I checked, I wasn't the one having a breakdown every five minutes or the one who is a robot as soon as it comes time to feel anything!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head once more. "I'm done." He said before he shoved John out of his way and went to his room, slamming the door as hard as he could.

"And you can't just walk off every time you don't want to talk." John yelled as he walked out the front door, making sure to grab his cigarettes before he left.

His heart raced as he crossed the street and into traffic. Why did he have to be so bloody difficult! All he had to say was yes or no! It really wasn't that hard to do! His hands shook violently as he attempted to pull a cigarette out of the pack, only for him to realize he forgot the lighter.

At this point it was probably safer to go to the corner and buy a new one then to go back to 221B, but of course he had forgotten money as well. So instead he placed the smoke back in the package and settled for a walk instead. Maybe a stroll through the park would be calming enough.

-o0o-

By the time John returned home it was pitch black and cold, but at least he was now at least some what reasonable and calm. He realized he needed to apologize, but really it was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Hey Sherlock, can you come out here for a minute?" John called down the small hall.

He got no response.

"Sherlock?" He tried again.

After another few moments of silence, John went to investigate. He knocked on the door, once, twice, and even a third time before just opening it.

-o0o-

The first thing he noticed when he opened the door was that the bed was nicely made, and the room on whole was quite tidy, everything seemed to be in its proper place. Everything except Sherlock. Sherlock was no where to be seen.

As John looked around the room a little more he realized he had only been in his room a handful of times. There wasn't really much to notice. There was a small wooden box that lay ajar on the dresser, next to the fully opened window, but other than that everything seemed normal.

"Sherlock? God, help me if you snuck down the fire..." He trailed off as he heard a low groan from the floor.

He turned only to see the dark haired detective spread out on the carpet, sleeve rolled up, belt around his arm, and an empty syringe lying next to him.

His heart sank. "Sherlock!"


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm fairly sure I can never stop thanking everyone for all the support, including the lovely and reliable Robynjade, who without this story would most likely still be on chapter four! Anywho moving on, I'm going to stop talking and let you enjoy the chapter!

Oh my god. Oh. My. God. Those were the three word circling around John's head as he fell to his knees beside Sherlock.

That was the moment his medical training, his army knowledge, hell, even his first aid were supposed to kick in...but they didn't. There was nothing, he didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to do. He was just moving his hands around the lifeless body, which was absolutely useless. So he removed the loosened belt from Sherlock's arm. At least that was a step.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked as he shook the body in front of him.

"Mmmm, John, there you are." He mumbled as John slowly helped raise him into a sitting position. "I was wondering when you would get back."

John wanted to punch him, and hard, but he knew that wouldn't help anything. He need to work through this, and violence was not the answer. John grabbed Sherlock's phone from the top of the nightstand.

"What the hell were you thinking!?" John asked as he dialed the first name that came to mind.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered to life. "No! Don't call My, please John. Just don't." He begged as he made a low effort reach for the phone.

"Then what am I supposed to do!? Come on, Sherlock, you tell me, because right now, I have no idea!" John yelled, pacing the floor.

The man with the dark curls groaned as he struggled to stay up. "Why do you even care? You're the one who left."

"God you're an idiot. I left because if I didn't..I was going to hit you or break something of actual value. I didn't leave so you could get high, that's for damn sure!" He said as he moved to sit on the bed, messing up the perfect covers.

"Obviously you knew there was at least a possibility I would react to emotional distress with drugs." Sherlock rationalized as he attempted to stand, his weak legs quickly giving out underneath him and allowing him to fall. As he fell back to the cold floor, he felt John's arms wrap around him. His skilled hands provided him with the feeling of security, as the had from the first time they touched. John was steady, sturdy...safe. He was unfailing, in almost every way.

"Here, I thought you were graceful!" John laughed as he pulled the partially dressed man in close beside him.

Sherlock gave him as stern a glare as he could manage in his current state. "I am... just not when I'm high it seems."

John shook his head, covering his face with his hands. "Sherlock, what am I supposed to do? Just tell me how I am supposed to help you...because I am right out of ideas, and you're the man with all the answers." He said, trying to rub all the emotions off of his face.

"John...I can't help you, help me."

"Well try!" John interrupted.

Sherlock sighed. "I can't help you because... I don't know how. I don't know! I don't know, John! I can't, I have tried to stop. I have been to rehab more times than I can count. But I just...I don't know how to stop. Maybe I can't be helped." He said as he leaned against John's shoulder and his eyes welled up.

John wrapped his arm around the tall detective. " I can only help you if you want to be helped. If that's what you want then we will do this together." He said quietly as he buried his nose in the dark mop of curls.

"Together." Sherlock whispered, wiping away a fallen tear.

-o0o-

After a few more minutes, John left to leave Sherlock to sober up and sleep of his high. He went out to the living room window and opened it. Slowly and carefully he climbed out and sat on the fire escape. He took a deep breath and watched as the street light flickered in the darkness.

For a genius, Sherlock was such an idiot. Hell, he was too. Why did he leave? He should have known better, he should have stayed and talked through the situation. Maybe if he had done that, maybe Sherlock would still be clean.

But he knew he couldn't blame himself, it wasn't his fault. It was the same with Harry, for years he had blamed himself...if he had been a better brother, or if he had done something different, all the ifs. But in the end, it still wasn't his fault, no matter what he did, she would still be an alcoholic, and only she could change that.

John rubbed his sleeve across his face, feeling the tears run down his cheeks, before he gave up and let the tears fall openly. The cold air washed over him, providing him with much needed relief and an anchor to the real world.

He repeated the same words over and over in his head. This is not your fault. But even after a hundred times, it didn't help. All he could do was think about the things he did wrong.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, leaning against the cold brick with his back. He just didn't know what to do. It was at this moment that his phone rang. He pulled the ringing mobile out of his pocket, and looked at the number. Greg. He probably shouldn't answer...but he did.

"Hey." He said quickly clearing his throat and wiping away the last of his tears.

"Hi..is everything alright? I have a case for Sherlock, but he won't answer his mobile." Greg said, the concern peaking through his voice.

"Sherlock is unavailable at the moment." John took a slow breath and decided to spill the beans. "We had a fight, and he got high, again. And I just...I don't know what to do." His voice cracking toward the end.

Greg sighed on the other end. "What the hell is going through that boys head?"

John just gave up. "It was me, I left. I was angry and throwing things, and I just needed to clear my head. And then I came back and he was on the floor and...God, Greg, I have never been that scared. Seeing him on the floor like that..."He said as he closed his eyes. "I thought I was going to loose him." He finished as the tears came flooding back.

"Is he alright?" Greg asked.

"Ya, ya, he's fine. He's just inside resting, sleeping it off."

"I'm calling Myc."

John's eyes went wide. "No! You can't, I promised him I wouldn't call Mycroft. And since when do you call him Myc?" He asked.

"Then I'm coming over, I'm not going to sit here and let you handle Sherlock on your own." Greg said with determination.

"Alright... but bring those case files, Sherlock will want them when he sobers up." John said with the hint of a sad smile.

"See you soon." He said just before the phone clicked off.

-o0o-

Within a half hour, there was a knock on the door, signaling Greg's arrival. John crawled back in through the open window and moved towards the door.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked from the shadows of the hallway.

"Bloody hell! Can you not hide in the dark!" John asked, putting his hand to his chest. "It's Greg, he has a case. A case that you are not even allowed to look at until you shower, eat, and have a clear head."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow quirking.

John finished walking to the door. "Because you're still high and I'm still angry, which doesn't make us a very good team at the moment. Now go shower." He said as he reached for the knob. "Now."

Sherlock pouted and turned around, heading straight to the bathroom.

John opened the door and saw Greg, case files and take out, in hand. "I thought you might want some food, it's curry." Greg said, a small smile forming on his lips.

"Thanks, I really appreciate you coming over." John said as he shut the door behind the man who he once viewed as a boss and now as a friend.

"No problem, I mean what else would I be doing on a friday night? Actually, don't answer that." He said with a laugh. He put the files on the desk, the curry on the kitchen counter, and went straight to the cupboard to grab plates.

"Take a plate down for Sherlock, would you? He's probably famished...which for him means eating all of my food. So maybe for once he can have his own plate." He laughed. It felt good to joke, it felt nice to have a normal conversation for once, no bloody crimes and no locked-room murders. Just a couple of friends and a bit of curry.

"Are you doing alright? I mean with all of this." Greg asked as he put a few spoonfuls of rice onto the first plate." Trust me, I've been where you are, and its not easy. Especially with Sherlock.

"I don't know." He admitted as he heard the shower turn on. "That's the only the thing I'm sure of these days, I just don't know. I don't know if I'm handling thing, I don't know if I can help him, I don't know I'm doing the right thing. I'm just lost." He confessed.

Greg stopped what he was doing and went over to the table where John was now sitting. "Are you still seeing that therapist of yours...what was her name...Emma?" He asked.

"Ella. And no, I stopped before I went back for that last tour." He said, now looking at the floor.

"Well that was stupid. John, you need her. Now more than ever, if you ask me. You just got back from war, and that changes a man. Plus, you have all this shite going on as well. You can't tell me you don't see that you need to talk to someone. " Greg reasoned.

"I.. I am fine." He said with a shake of his head.

"No...John, you're not." Sherlock said, turning the corner in nothing but a towel.

John looked at him, his jaw slack. He didn't even hear the shower turn off, much less Sherlock leave the bathroom.

"We both need help. We can't help each other, until we help ourselves." He said, his eyes holding John's gaze.

"Wha..."

"I've called Mycroft, I'm going to rehab." He said, letting out a long breath. "But if I am going to do this, you need to go back to therapy. Together." Sherlock explained as he moved closer.

"No. I can't let you do this, I can't let you go. We can fix this." John said, stumbling over his words.

Greg nodded. "John. I agree with Sherlock, this is what's best."

"But...Dammit! That's not what I meant when I said we would do this together. Don't I get a say?" He asked, a pleading expression written over the blondes face.

Sherlock just smiled and ran a finger over John's stubbled cheek. "Not this time, my love." He said, punctuating the term of endearment with a kiss to the top of John's head. "I'm going to get dressed, the car will be here soon. John, you can come with me as far as the center and then I'm afraid it will have to be goodbye. But only for a little while."

John sat stunned as Sherlock left the soon too small kitchen. He didn't understand. That was the one thing Sherlock had asked him not to do. Don't call Mycroft. Then he goes and volunteers to go to rehab. "Why?"

"I think, it's because he loves you." Greg said, finally taking a bit of the cold take away.

John instantly knew he was right. But that didn't make the situation anymore bearable. Sherlock was going away for who knows how long, away from him. To sit in a blank room, surrounded by people who couldn't understand him if they tried, and to endure force fed group therapy. No, this was good, he was going to get help. Even being reminded of this, John still wanted to run to him and beg him to stay.

"You have to let him go, let him do this. You know that...right?" Greg asked, one brow raised.

"I do. Doesn't mean I want to." John said, his heart aching as he said the words.

He had to do this, he had to do it for Sherlock, for himself, and for their relationship. Until they could move on from the past, they couldn't have a future...that's what hurt most of all. Knowing that he couldn't fix them, knowing that he couldn't be the man he needed to be, the man Sherlock deserved. It felt like a piece of him died knowing that he couldn't do that. But what could he do? He was just as broken, only in a different way.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry it took me a while to get this up, I hope all is forgiven. Enjoy!

"John? John? Do you understand? " A familiar voice asked, but he wasn't listening, because, well, he didn't really care.

He nodded though, widened his eyes, pretended to listen. "Yes. I understand. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?" He asked, now hurried to leave the dull office.

Ella (his therapist) shook her head, realizing there was no way she was going to win this battle. "Just remember, all this takes time. That's normal." She sighed and John stood up to leave. "Don't rush it, he's just getting out of his rehabilitation, that doesn't mean he is healed or any better than when he went in, it also doesn't mean you're in a position to help him." She finished, her final remarks settling in John's core.

"I'll see you Wednesday." He said as he shut the door large glass door and ended the conversation.

Sherlock was getting out today. Sherlock was coming home...TODAY! John practically shouted in his mind. He wanted to dance, he was so excited. It had been three very long, boring, months of letters, emails, and waiting for nonexistent phone calls. But none of that was enough. He needed to see him, he needed to feel his touch, smell his hair (which always smelled like coffee and a touch of cinnamon), he just need him. He had been waiting for this since the moment he left.

John had practically shut down without him. This was different than when he was at war. At war, he went to work, faced the dangers and his fear, then went to bed. That left only the rare moments when he was alone to actually think about Sherlock. But here he was hardly working, barely sleeping, all he did was sit in the flat waiting for Sherlock to return. Everything smelled like him, every stranger on the street looked like him, every single thing reminded John of what he was missing out on. Everyone was constantly asking after him, it was horrible. John just wanted to hide in the flat and tell everyone to fuck off and leave him be.

But today was different, he was getting out today. Sherlock hated rehab, he hated being restricted, he hated the staff, he hated not working, he hated all of it. John knew it was in his best interest, he knew Sherlock had done it for him, but he also knew it hurt like hell. Having Sherlock gone was like having a hole in his heart (as cliché as that sounds). Knowing he would soon have his other half back in his life made him feel whole again.

When John looked up, he realized he was over half way to the train station. The center was nice, extremely nice, Holmes nice. The food was over the top gourmet (served with sporks and plastic plates). The center was right on the coast, overlooking the sea. 'Relaxing' according to the brochure Sherlock had sent him, 'repetitive and tiresome' according to his letter. But for once in his life Sherlock had finished something, and that was something John could be proud of.

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes till the long, graceful, albeit arrogant, detective stepped off the train. John could hardly walk straight, all he could do was picture the man he hadn't seen in so long. As he wandered around the station, trying to find the right platform, he scoured the crowd, once again looking his love.

He knew not much had changed since Sherlock had left, they still had a million issues that they needed to work through. He was still having night terrors, Sherlock still had occasional panic attacks, he still couldn't sleep without his gun by his side, and Sherlock still couldn't sleep at all.

John realized that Ella was right, their problems didn't just erase themselves, but rehab, separation, time to try to work on their issues individually, that had to have helped...right? John rubbed his head as he sat on a hard wooden bench, waiting for the train to arrive. John kept his head down, just listening for the whistles and brakes.

"Is this seat taken?" A deep and familiar voice asked.

Instantly John's eyes shot up to look at the man who stood before him. It was Sherlock and yet it wasn't. This man was tall and thin, same hair and eyes. But his face looked sad, scruff piled around his mouth, and his finger nails were chewed to bits. This was Sherlock, but it was a version John had never seen, disheveled, tired, and worse for wear. But honestly John could care less. He bolted up and wrapped his arms around him, grabbing fist fulls of his ratty hoodie, and holding him unimaginably tight.

"Should I take that as a yes?" Sherlock laughed, but the laugh wasn't his, the laugh was lifeless and dull. It almost saddened John to hear it.

"Yes, of course it's a yes, you daft git." He said as he held him ever closer reluctant to lose him once more.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John, John...too tight. Too tight." He said as he felt John loosen his death grip.

"Sorry, I just...I just missed you." He said as he let go and took a step back. Still amazed that he was here, for real.

Sherlock and John sat down on the bench, and Sherlock wrapped his arm over his shoulders, providing a comforting touch that John had missed for far too long. "How was the train?" He asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

"It was fine. But can we not talk for a bit, I just want to be here with you." He said as he held him close. Thinking of all the times they had done this before.

John just nodded. He cherished their silence among the many noises of the train station. People chatting, babies crying, trains coming and going, whistles, and just the sounds of footsteps from every direction.

After a few more minutes in silence, John finally spoke again. "It was that bad?" He asked.

"Remind me to never willingly go to a place where they force you to participate in sing-alongs and therapy sessions." Sherlock replied, making a ghastly face.

John smiled, knowing that was the Sherlock equivalent to hell on earth. "I can't promise anything."

"How can you be a doctor, when you have such an appalling bedside manner?" Sherlock asked with a grin.

"I don't think anyone has quite figured that out yet, but they have been asking for years." Both the men smiled at each other, truly missing the others companionship. "Come on, let's head home, you can pick out dinner...and don't say you're not hungry, I know you are." He said as he stood up and took Sherlock's duffel in hand.

Sherlock followed as the walked out of the station, listened as they drove to the thai restaurant, and smiled once they got to Baker Street. John talked about the surgery, about his 'therapy' which Sherlock still put no stock into, and Mrs. Hudson's latest adventures. All of which Sherlock could really care less about, but it was nice to hear John's voice again, even if he was starting to ramble.

It wasn't until they were already sitting at their little kitchen table that John took a breath and a pause. "I'm glad you're back." He said, finally taking a bite of his take away.

Sherlock smiled weakly. "So am I...I made the right choice didn't I? Going to rehab, that was good, wasn't it?" He asked.

John was surprised, and not entirely sure how to respond. "Yes, Sherlock, I think you did. You needed help, and I couldn't give you that." He paused and thought for a moment. "Sometimes the best thing we can do for ourselves is ask for help."

"Then why doesn't it feel like the right thing?" He asked, legitimately puzzled.

He frowned, he had thought this would be the right thing for them but now he wasn't quite sure it was. "I don't know, love. I just don't know." John said as he reached over and rubbed his thumb across the back of Sherlock's hand.

"I think... I think I am going to head to bed now." Sherlock said, looking down at the table before sliding out his chair and leaving the kitchen.

John frown only grew when he saw Sherlock's only picked at plate of food. It seemed like there were only remnants of the Sherlock he knew and loved, and that killed him. But he could see that just like everything else, they would get through this, and stronger as they did.

He took the two barely touched plates and scraped them off into the garbage. Throwing them into the sink and leaving them there till morning. He was in no mood for dishes. Just as he was about to lug himself up the flight of stairs to his room, he caught sight of Sherlock's duffel. John sighed.

He threw the duffel over his good shoulder, he would just sneak in and go to bed he decided. He softly opened the door and place the long, black bag beside it, thinking he had gotten away with it.

"John?" Sherlock called into the empty evening light.

He sighed once more. "Ya?"

"Would you sleep with me tonight?" He asked, his voice almost trembling.

After rehab, sleeping alone for so long, John thought that he wouldn't be wanting any company. But he was wrong. "Of course. Anything." He said as he slid quietly into the room, closing the door as softly as he had opened it, and then climbing into the cold bed.

John laid there under the covers, just being a second presence in the room, a second heartbeat, his calming breaths there to comfort the man he loved. It felt almost awkward compared to before, though, Sherlock curled on his side and John military straight.

"John?" He asked once more.

He hummed in response.

"I love you."

With that, John couldn't hold back any longer, he rolled in beside Sherlock, quickly becoming the big spoon, and wrapping his arms around the detective's practically non existent waist. "I love you too. You are more than I could have ever dreamed of." He said, pressing a kiss into his shoulder.

Sherlock smiled to himself, finally feeling home again. He had always viewed a house as a shelter, his body as transport, and other people as useless. But the more time he spent with John the more he viewed a house as his home, his body as worthwhile, and other people as important. John had changed him in so many ways, he couldn't even begin to discover. Even though it scared him that one person, one man could change him so much, feeling John's arms around him made him feel secure and let him know that everything would be alright, even if that was far from the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go. We get to see a different Sherlock, a confused John, and an uncertain future. .. Dont you just love it! If you did, please review, it really does mean the world to me. Thanks :)


	14. Chapter 14

When John woke up, Sherlock was still fast asleep, and still in John's arms. Though the fact that Sherlock was still sleeping and that he could hardly feel his arm was quite alarming to John, he couldn't be overly bothered. The smell of Sherlock surrounded him, filling his nose with the scent of love and that was enough. He gently pulled his arm out from under Sherlock's slight frame and sat up on the side of the bed. He yawned and glanced at the clock. 12:00AM flashed back at him. Had the power gone out? Oh well, its not like they had anything planned for the day anyway. John laid down, once more curling to his side. He could hear the rain as is pitter pattered down the nearby window, he let it lull him, calm him. Everything is alright. Everything is alright. Everything is alright. He chanted, thinking it over and over as he had been doing for the past months. Everything is alright, because he's here. He's back. He's safe. And with that security, he found himself drifting into a deep sleep once more.

-o0o-

"...Sherlock, wouldn't you like to share something with the group." The woman with the blonde hair asked. They were sitting in a circle, on chairs made from blue plastic, all hating their existence.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, rolled his eyes. "Not particularly. " He spat. Why the hell would he want to 'share' with a group of societies rejected. He had nothing to share anyway.

She pursed her lips. "Why don't you give it a shot? We are all here to help."

And with that ridiculous notion, he stood up, fully intending to leave the room.

"Mr. Holmes, we would appreciate it if you would stay here with us. Being with the group is what group therapy is all about." She said as she crossed her legs and perched her clasped hands on top.

"Well, if you recall, I'm not here to socialize, I am here to get sober." He said as he forcefully pushed through the double swinging doors.

It was at that moment he saw him. Instantly he felt the sweat bead on his forehead, his heart speed, the adrenaline kick in. He looked for any and all exits. The stairs were too far and if he went to the front door he would be seen. His only exit was behind him.

He pressed his way back into the therapy room, obviously shaken.

The doctor's eyes widened. "Welcome back, did you change your mind?" She asked.

Sherlock took his spot back in his seat, still weary of the man just outside the door. This couldn't be happening. Not again. No. He wasn't safe, he couldn't think, he couldn't be here, not with him.

The group continued talking about ridiculous things such as cravings and how mismatched socks could cause a nervous break down. Couldn't they understand that more important things were going on?

Stop.

He stopped all the wild thoughts that were running through his mind. What did he need to do now? He needed to call someone...John. No, John couldn't help him right now, it would just distress him. Mycroft, he needed Mycroft.

He pulled out his phone, dialling the number as quickly as he could.

"Mr. Holmes, please put away your phone." She asked, once again disrupting the group to focus on him.

"Fuck off." He said as he stood up and moved to a corner of the large room.

Mycroft knew when Sherlock called versus texted it was an emergency and yet still no answer. Athena, if that's what she was currently going by, she was next, her number instantly answered.

"Mycroft. Now." He said, his voice threatning to break.

-o0o-

Suddenly the center was gone, but his terror lingered. Though now he was being suffocated by blankets and pillows. He was frantic, his fear still holding onto him. He swatted at the covers, desperately trying to get free.

"What the hell? Sherlock, Sherlock! What is it?" John asked as he pulled the blanket away, letting him see the sweat covered detective. "Are you okay?" He asked, watching as Sherlock's eyes blinked in the darkness.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to get his heart rate to slow down. He finally shook his head in response, not able to verbalize what he was feeling. Unable to actually say, I'm not okay. He just couldn't say it. He was the picture of fine, he was the poster boy of fine, or at least he once had been.

John rubbed the sleep from his eyes, knowing he was going o have to be full awake for whatever came next. "What happened? What were you dreaming about?" He asked gently.

"Uh, it wasn't a dream. Sometimes my memories replay themselves as dreams, call it the curse of never forgetting anything. It was rehab, I was..." He didn't know how to continue, because, well, he didn't know how much John knew about his past.

"It's fine, you can take your time." He said, trying to alleviate any pressure.

"John, whatever Greg told you, the man who did those things to me..He was there. He was there and I couldn't get away." He said, trembling, his voice shaking.

John shook his head, he couldn't comprehend what he was hearing. He didn't want to believe this. He didn't want to think about Sherlock having to suffer through that. His panic attacks were already bad enough, he didn't need to be faced with that when he was already vulnerable.

"Why didn't you call me!?" John asked, feeling as small as a pea, feeling like he had let down the man he loved.

"I couldn't do that to you, so I called Mycroft." He said as he buried his face in his hands. "I didn't want to disappoint you. I just wanted to be brave for you."

John's face fell, realizing the reason Sherlock went through that again was all for him. He took the younger man in his arms, holding him tighter than what was comfortable for both of them. "You are the most fearless man that I have ever met, but that doesn't mean that you can't have a weakness. And trust me when I say, nothing you do will ever disappoint me, because you are the love of my life and nothing could change that. There will be times when I will be unhappy with you, but that doesn't change anything. If you need me, you tell me and I will be there." John said as he held him, leaning his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. "Do you understand me? I will always be there for you."

Sherlock nodded, he didn't want to cry, but he could feel the tears sting his eyes and start to overflow. John could feel the drops hitting his arm, but it just made him hold on tighter. His gut wrenched at the thought of not being there for the man he loved, and it honestly felt like some one was ripping out a piece of his heart with every sob.

"Im, I'm sorry, John." He mumbled into the doctor's chest, clinging to him.

John ran his fingers through the dark curls. "You don't need to be sorry, you're brilliant. You are the smartest, bravest, most amazing person that I have ever met, and don't you dare apologize for that." He soothed, meaning every word.

"It was so hard for me while you were away." John started after a while of silence. "Everything I looked at reminded me of you. God, even that stupid skull made me miss you. I wanted this, right here. I wanted you, in my arms, letting me hold you. There was one night, I almost went down to the center and broke you out, just so I could kiss you." He said, feeling Sherlock start to drift off again.

"Mmmm, that would have been nice." He agreed as his eyes fluttered shut.

John smiled as Sherlock's breathing evened out and he felt his body relax in his hold. "You are brilliant." He whispered just as he shut his own eyes. And just like that they were both having another (albeit dreamless) rest, just waiting for morning to come and another day to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you go, a little in between chapter with a bit of a flashback to rehab. And yes before you ask, I am going to do more flash backs for both John and Sherlock to kind of show how they dealt with the seperation. I hope you enjoyed this, I also hope you keep reading ( pretty pretty please). And as always please review, becuase everytime you do my heart smiles just a little bit wider :)


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